


Courage grows strong at a wound

by CuFeilidh



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Whump, Arthur-centric, Complete, Gen, Happy Ending, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuFeilidh/pseuds/CuFeilidh
Summary: Arthur and Merlin are kidnapped, and they do not have a good time.Arthur is tortured, Merlin can't use magic, and when he finally gets it back, he must use it to save Arthur's life at the risk of his own.Mostly Arthur's POV cause I love him (not that you'd know it to read this), but Merlin gets his say too.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever written, so please review and tell me what you think! I'd genuinely love some constructive criticism, but be gentle with me, I'm pretty new to writing outside of academia XD
> 
> This is honestly born from a depressive episode, and I desperately wanted to vent. Usually I do so with visual art, but I thought I'd take it out on Arthur this time. Poor guy. Don't worry, I'm a sucker for a happy ending!
> 
> I've got the whole story written down, so I'll be able to upload chapters every few days or so as I finish editing them.
> 
> This fic will contain graphic depictions of torture in later chapters, so consider yourself warned. 18+ only pls.

When the king of Camelot came to, the first thing he could discern from the jumbled rat’s-nest that was his current entire sense of self, was the sharp pain in the back of his head. A complete lack of spatial awareness was a close second. Wherever he was it was completely dark, and in constant jarring motion. The unending, almost familiar jolting beat blindingly against his skull in time with the pounding in his head. He could not even decide which way was up or down. Though, he thought, perhaps his congested head was lower in accordance with his body than it ought to be. It felt about as heavy as a smoked ham. Perhaps the whole pig.

He tried to move an arm, a leg, but found himself unable to do so. His hands were numb, and his shoulders strained. Wrists likely bound behind his back then. Ankles tied too. He scrunched his face in a grimace trying to force his hands free. No luck, but he finally felt the cloth covering his eyes. Blindfolded then, but not gagged. Small favours. Was he... yes; he thought he was possibly thrown over the back of a horse, the rhythm finally clicking into place in memory. Well that was undignified. 

His senses were beginning to come out from hiding now, which brought with it a great deal of discomfort, and not a little pain, but he impatiently shoved that to the back of his mind. This was not the time to take note of the petty hardships of the situation. He concentrated instead on what he could hear and feel around him, and trying to remember what on earth had happened.

There were voices on either side of him. A company of men, chattering amongst themselves quietly about nothing in particular, just regular trail speech. He recognized no one by voice. Most or all were on horses by the sounds of it, perhaps a company of a dozen or so. A grinding of gravel and creaking of wheel to his left was likely the sound of a cart. That was ahead of him in the procession, he thought, the horse was moving in that direction. Whatever that direction was. 

He could catch no more than a glimpse of sunlight under his blindfold. His sense of smell was mostly limited to the horse and leather his face was pressed up against, but he also smelled the familiar scent of trees and forest. Well, that accounted for the majority of his and the surrounding kingdoms, he thought wryly. Where was he? Where had he been?

Merlin! He and Merlin had taken a tour of the kingdom. Disguised as a commoner, he had wished to visit some outlying villages, to get a feel for the mood of his people, and admittedly, to get away from the burden of ruling for a day or two. 

Someone had attacked them then? Did they know who he was, or were they in the wrong place at the wrong time?

That did have an odd tendency to happen to him it seemed, especially when Merlin was with him. Not that they didn’t also tend to get away largely unscathed. Where was his bumbling servant now? Surely he was alright. Brain fog rapidly lifting, worry for his decidedly non-combative friend made shift to replace it. That was shoved to the back of his mind too. Probably his fault anyway, he snorted. Merlin was an idiot. At least, It was easier to think so than to continue to worry. 

The vague memory of Merlin complaining of one of his mysterious ‘bad feelings’ the previous morning filtered through his other thoughts, and he felt a trace of guilt. Perhaps he should actually take heed of the often weirdly correct warnings once and a while. As much as he liked giving his friend--yes, he conceded privately, king or not, his friend--a hard time, the blame did not necessarily fall on his bony shoulders. He could joke and tease, but he was not in the habit of lying to himself in the privacy of his mind. This could well be his own fault. If only he could remember.

Anger was the next emotion that trickled into Arthur’s rapidly clearing mind, aimed primarily at himself. It didn’t really matter whose fault it was, did it? He was the warrior, the best in the kingdom in fact, and here he was trussed up on the back of a damn horse. He should have fought harder, should have seen it coming--whatever it was. What had happened!? Arthur struggled against his bonds again with renewed vigor, trying to scrape the blindfold off his face against the horse’s saddle. He needed to see, he needed to know what was going on!

“None of that then, your highness.” There was a sudden gruff voice by his ear, mocking, foul breath smelling of onions and sour ale. A sharp pain to the back of his head and a burst of stars in his mind’s eye were the last things the king registered before all was dark once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short prologue to set the scene. Please review!! Give a new author some motivation ;)
> 
> Btw, I hate thinking of titles, so I just used my ancestral clan's very melodramatic motto. Love it.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last one was so short, and I had this one largely finished with, I thought I'd go ahead and put it up.
> 
> I'm wondering here, since I have a prologue, if there's a way to make my chapter numbers match? Cause as it is, my chapter 1 is now called chapter 2. Ah well.
> 
> Anyway, no great amount of whump yet. This chapter's pretty mild.

Arthur landed hard on the cold, grossly slick flagstones of the cell, and heard his servant land in similarly rough fashion next to him. Merlin was coughing and gasping for breath, air knocked clear of his lungs. With hands tied behind their backs, it was impossible to catch the brunt of the fall on them. The more dextrous of the two, Arthur had twisted slightly to one side to escape Merlin’s current dilemma and ignored the hard blow suffered on his right shoulder and hip, immediately turning back to their assailants with a snarl. 

It was the day after Arthur had woken tied up and thrown over the back of a horse, and shortly thereafter been knocked back into oblivion. He had come to the second time much later that evening, having been dumped unceremoniously to the ground next to a tree, and Merlin. 

“Merlin…?” he had groaned, seeing a white face materialize above him. Something damp was being dabbed gently on his forehead. Felt pretty nice actually. 

Still extremely disoriented, and momentarily unaware that time had probably passed since he had last been awake, he was suddenly a little frantic to find his eyes unblocked by cloth, but seemingly unworking.

“Merlin, why can’t I see you!” He flailed a hand up to the still undefined image of his servant’s familiar face above him, smacking him in the process. Had he been hit too hard? Had his vision been damaged? The sudden adrenaline shot him bolt upright, but the intensity of the pain in his head brought him back down again, groaning with his face in his hands. He fought down a wave of nausea.

“Ow!” hissed an exasperated Merlin, “That was my nose! It’s _night_ , Arthur, I can hardly see you either!” a pale hand examined the offended feature critically

“Oh.” said Arthur. “Right, of course.” He coughed, embarrassed. 

Slowly, he began to regain his senses. The number of times he’d found himself knocked unconscious in his young life, he thought, vigorously trying to rub the muzziness out of his face, he probably would wind up struck blind one of these days. 

He sat up again, more carefully this time, taking his first real look around. They were both tied to the same large tree, and to each other. Unfortunately the men seemed to favor manacles and chains, so even had he retained his dagger, they would not be cutting loose. At least their hands were given enough length to move with relative freedom. They could not, however, move farther than an arm's length from the tree. Arthur had been relieved of both knife and sword, and having been in disguise, he’d had no armour to begin with. 

There was a bucket of water sitting at Merlin’s side, the source of his earlier soothed forehead, Merlin’s ever-present neckerchief draped over the side. He grabbed the bucket and handed the damp cloth back to its owner with a small nod of thanks, and gulped down a generous share. Of the water, at least, there was plenty. The measly hunk of bread Merlin handed him was less satisfying.

“Eat up,” Merlin said, “I’ve had my share already. They really go all out on the food around here.” He went back to fiddling with his wrist manacle, looking almost offended that it didn’t loose at once. Trust Merlin to not have a complete grasp of the situation. 

“Lovely,” Arthur muttered, biting into the bread. At least it was decent enough quality, if a little dry.

Arthur sat against the tree and watched the men. They were some little distance away, sitting around the light and warmth of two fires. Satisfied that his rough estimate had been correct, he counted ten different men laughing and joking, elbowing each other over crude jokes. Another two or three would likely be in the surrounding woods, on watch. They all wore the same short, grubby white tabard, adorned with the unfamiliar emblem of a red boar. He could hear horses champing somewhere in the dark nearby, his own mount and Merlin’s now among them no doubt.

“Do you have any idea what happened?” he turned to Merlin, the man looking into the middle distance with a look of disgruntled worry. “I’m a bit hazy on the details,” he gestured to his abused blond head, splotched with small patches of crusted blood near the nape of his neck.

“We were visiting the northern villages, disguised, you remember?” Arthur nodded, and he continued, “we were just leaving the first inn at Grenestead this morning. We didn’t get two miles before this lot ambushed us. They pulled me off my horse, whacked over the head and chained up and everything, before I barely knew what was happening. You killed at least three of them before one bugger must have got a lucky swing in and knocked you out. I saw the bodies as we were leaving before they tied a cloth round my eyes. Very nice, that.” He trailed off and looked back up at Arthur from where his gaze had wandered. “Really? Nothing ringing a bell?”

Arthur shook his head. The water had tamed its ache at least. “Vaguely. I remember Grenestead, I remember leaving, but the fight…” he glanced at their unfamiliar captors. “No. Nothing. Have they said what the want?”

“They wouldn’t say, and they’d hit me every time I asked,” Merlin said. He pulled up his shirt at this, proving that their captors found his constant nattering as annoying as he did. There were a number of fist sized bruises on his stomach and ribs. “Just said that we were expected somewhere. Arthur, remember, I did tell you I--”

He knew exactly what he was going to say. “Yes Merlin, I remember. One of your little feelings.” He wiggled his fingers irritably. “Trust me, if I listened to you every time you were scared of leaving the castle I’d never take you anywhere.” He knew the man was right, but damned if he’d admit it.

“Fine,” Merlin snorted, “It’s not like I actually want to go with you anywhere anyways, except wait. You couldn’t lace your trousers without me. I should just quit. See how well you--” 

“Merlin.” Arthur interrupted, comforted at the familiarity despite himself. “Shut up.”

At present, things were less than comforting however.

“Get ‘em up to the wall,” one of the men who had brought them to the dungeon ordered in a bored voice. 

The other guards obeyed instantly, deftly dodging the kicks Arthur was aiming at their knees as they neared him. Merlin too was struggling for all his worth, though the man was no warrior and stood no chance. The metal cuffs on both their wrists were seized carelessly, and King and servant were dragged two to a man to the the wall and bound there, switching one set of chain and shackles for another.

Now early afternoon two days post-ambush, they had just arrived at a dilapidated castle ruin. It stood, ancient and crumbling, in a sheltered valley in the middle of who knows where. At last their blindfolds had been ripped off, and they had been granted their first decent daylit view since their capture. Not that they had immediately seen much of anything, being blinded by the unexpected brightness.

They had been immediately received at the gate by soldiers come up from the castle, all uniformed the same way as the other men in well-worn white with red. Arthur had stood blinking and rubbing at his eyes in acute disequilibrium before he had felt his shackled wrists being grabbed roughly, and then both he and Merlin had been pulled stumbling along, straight into the lower dungeons at crossbow point. The original group of men had made off with the horses and cart, heavily laden with foodstuffs, greeting their fellows with cheerful reciprocal gestures.

The brief glimpses Arthur had managed on their way in had offered no hint of their whereabouts. The only times they’d been free to peer about was when they had stopped for the night in some nameless forest clearing. They’d endured two nights of this, freezing together too far from the fires for comfort; the late autumn weather was not kind. All of the past two days and right up to their arrival they’d been stumbling and staggering blind, nothing but the back of the cart for balance and direction. Not pleased that Arthur had lessened their number by three, the men had taken every chance they could to harass him, and Merlin by association. Clearly they didn’t care that they held captive a king.

By now, all they’d learned by inference was that they’d been brought in by soldiers under the command of a man claiming to represent the desires of some king or other. What king, had not yet been been offered, nor what he wanted with Arthur. Arthur’s repeated demands for answers yielded nothing but silence or cuffs to the back of the head. The representative turned out to be a small but compact, middle-aged man with long grey hair and sharp, flexibly expressive facial features. He had met them at the gates, introducing himself as Skellik; right-hand-man to the unnamed king, lead general, dungeon master. Interrogator. He would say nothing of his intentions.

“Consider this your last warning Skellik,” Arthur now glared at the dungeon master’s impassive face, blue eyes all but shooting flame. Skellik had strolled along behind the guards and captives, offering no more than his brief earlier introduction, and had watched indifferently as the guard dealt with their imprisonment. “Tell your King. Holding me here will bring nothing but the wrath of Camelot upon him. My knights will not rest until I’m found, and they will not be lenient. This is the last chance for peaceful resolution.” He schooled his face to austere authority, chin held high, even as he was forced to his knees. “I am willing to talk.”

The dungeon master’s previously immobile face split into an expression Arthur didn’t think should be classified a grin, too charitable a term for the sinister look. Yet pleased he certainly appeared. “Talk, yes, I should say you will talk,” Skellik laughed at his own joke, a foul sound as greasy and cold as the cell’s damp floor. Arthur held his proud gaze, resisting the urge to shudder. “I’ll see you later, your highness” he bowed mockingly, sneer in place as he waved his men out before him and slammed the door.

Merlin, having been taut as a bowstring, slumped beside him as soon as the door closed, shoulders hunched as though he wished to hug himself tight, but could not with his arms above his head.

“Arthur, I really don’t like the sound of that.” He turned his face, whiter even then usual, towards Arthur. He had a graze on one sharp cheekbone that oozed a small amount of blood, but was already clotting. Otherwise he was undamaged by their rough entrance. “We have to get out of here obviously. Any ideas?” He turned his head about this way and that, scoping out their surroundings, worried expression plastered to his expressive face. He rattled his chains and tugged and muttered in obvious frustration, passed the point at which it was obvious he accomplished nothing by doing so.

Arthur hadn’t liked the sound of that either, he willingly admitted to himself. However, he was wont to stay more calm about it than was his servant. 

“Leaving the plan making all to me, are we Merlin? You really are useless.” Merlin snorted rudely, but otherwise didn’t rise to the bait, continuing to look about the cell and tug on the shackles intermittently. Arthur felt a little disappointed that he’d failed to lighten his friend’s mood. Merlin usually brightened at the opportunity to throw some witticisms his way.

Arthur took a less cursory look around their cell now himself. It was not large, perhaps ten paces across, and less to the door they faced, though quite high ceilinged. There was a pile of moldering straw in one corner to offer the unwilling inhabitants of the room some refuge from the filth on the floor--the unchained inhabitants that is. Likewise, a privy bucket sat by the door, out of reach. They’d deal with that little problem in due time, Arthur thought wryly. 

The door was a solid affair of old oak and iron, not even a small flap at the bottom for shoving in food. It lacked a handle the inside entirely, with the hinges safely out of reach of tampering on the opposite side. By the looks of things, decades or more of futile attempts to damage its integrity had failed to to do anything other than lend it a hopeless patina of desperate banging and fingernail gouges. Far, far above them, directly over their heads, there was a small hole of a window, too high to reach, too small to fit through, and barred just the same. 

He gave his own shackles a thoughtful tug; far too small to slip out of, they hung from either end of a chain that looped through an iron hoop well above, letting their hands fall to just over their heads. Both wrists being attached to a single chain, one hand could stretch far enough up to allow the other to reach their face, but no lower from their positions on the ground. Standing, they’d have more reach. The hoop would be within arms reach of most but the shortest of men, Arthur estimated. 

He stood to get a closer look. It was firmly attached to the stone. No hope of working that loose, he was certain. Frankly, he was out of ideas involving getting themselves out of the cell. That left trickery, either fooling one of the guards to let them loose or overpowering them somehow when they were near enough to snatch the keys. Not wonderful options, Arthur thought, but he was unwilling to consider despair. It wasn’t in him to give up so quickly.

“I’ll think of something.” Arthur said out loud to himself with a decisive nod, forcing utter confidence into his voice. He refused to believe otherwise, and willed his less than sanguine companion to feel the same.

* * * * * * *

Arthur thought it unlikely they’d been forgotten about, but it was beginning to feel like it. In truth, it had been about two days since they’d arrived at the castle and imprisoned. Both nights had been long ones; very little light filtered through the tiny window, and it had grown colder even than the median daytime temperature, which in itself, was not high. They had spent the nighttime hours trying to fall into even a fitful doze, but were continuously awoken by the painful cramping in their unnaturally positioned arms and metal bitten wrists. When it wasn’t that, it was the cold, which seeped into their very bones from the cold stone and the damp, which mitigated any warmth they could have found in drier clothing. 

Arthur had clenched his jaw and tried to fight against his body’s incessant shaking, feeling weak against that which he could not control, but Merlin was even less accustomed to the chill. Arthur had heard his teeth clacking and violent shuddering all through both nights. Silently, the bigger man had tried to sidle closer to him, and lend him some little warmth, but even when Merlin realized what he was doing and shuffled closer too, they could do little more than press the sides of their neighboring calves together.

And if the nights were bad, it was little worse than the waiting. You don’t always hear about the oppressiveness of simple boredom in imprisonment. Of waiting hour after hour, with nothing but your own dark thoughts. When your head is so unoccupied, so void of anything to fill it with, it likes to fill it with whatever material is on hand. Being chained in a dungeon doesn’t make for the cheeriest of fodder, and Arthur had already finished counting every stone several times.

Arthur and Merlin had talked quietly to each other, guessing at what was in store, attempting to create some distraction from the situation. They half-heartedly tried to joke, to cheer the other up, but the melancholy grew on them like frost on the wet stone come evening. They lapsed into longer and longer bouts of silence, broken mostly by the complaints of empty bellies which they tried hard to ignore. It almost made Arthur wish the dungeon master would pay them that promised visit and get it over with. Almost.

After several hours of gloomy silence, Arthur voiced a sudden exasperated huff. He shook his blond head as if to clear it of cobwebs and stood up, working his stiff shoulders in wide circles to try and ease the ache. “C’mon Merlin, get up. Your growing mold.” 

“Why? What’s the point?” Merlin grumbled, but actually obayed the order for once, stumbling to his feet and hissing at sore muscles and joints. Arthur hated seeing the usually optimistic man so morose, and sighed. He’d try to put on a happy face then.

“They’ll be long missing us Camelot by now,” he said, slapping a smile on his face. “That means they’ll be out looking for us. They’ll find the tracks. Company that big can’t hide from the best trackers in the five kingdoms.” Arthur chose not to point out that the best tracker in Camelot was currently locked up in this cell. He gave his friend’s shoulder a slap and a hearty squeeze.

“Ow!” Merlin complained. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Cheer up Merlin, don’t be such a weakling. We’ll get out of this, we always do!” He braced a shoulder on the wall and crouched, one knee bent towards Merlin, hands cupped on top. “Hop up,” he ordered, “I want to know if you can see anything out there.

Merlin sighed once more, but nodded, willing to play out the latest distraction. He put a boot in Arthur’s hand, and the knight hoisted his twiggy friend up easily despite feeling the weakening of prolonged hunger and thirst already. Merlin wriggled and fought to stay upright, and Arthur moved his booted feet up to his shoulders and grabbed hold of Merlin’s legs to steady him. Merlin was not able to reach the bars of the window with his hands, nor was he tall enough to see out of it. 

With some difficulty, Arthur was able to keep him steady enough to find a foothold on the hoop holding Merlin’s chains with one foot, while Arthur lifted the other above his head, level with his own hoop. Hands braced against the wall as high as he could manage, which was only at about waist height, Merlin stood precariously balanced, with little keeping him from falling off to either side. Arthur grunted and strained against half of Merlin’s weight held above his head, struggling to see from his vantage point if Merlin was high enough to see out. 

“This is useless,” Merlin grunted, windpipe pressing on the window ledge in his effort to get a good view. “We face north I think, the back of the castle, but I’m just guessing from the light. There’s the wall, it’s far off, and I can barely see the top of it. I see guards--two, uh, three of them up there.” He wriggled and grunted again, trying to turn his head. “Honestly Arthur, what am I supposed to be getting from this, the window’s in a well, so I can hardly see out, and I--”

Suddenly there was the sound of a key fitting into the lock outside their door, and the metal screech and clunk of tumblers giving way. Startled, Merlin whipped around, apparently forgetting he was eight feet or so off the ground. Arthur yelped, making a grab for his servant as he came flailing earthwards, grunting as he nabbed a passing limb and slowed its momentum. As the heavy door creaked open, both Merlin and Arthur hit the ground, the former with a loud cry as his lower body smacked down onto the unyielding stone and his suspended upper body wrenched his already raw wrists against his shackles. 

Arthur immediately sprung back up to his feet to meet whoever came with some semblance of dignity; back straight, chin high and proud. Spine tingling, heart pounding in his chest, he added privately to himself with just a hint of panic, but he swallowed that back. That was not how he had been trained to behave in trying circumstance. Fear was something to control. He would meet what came with the poise befitting a king. 

In came the imposing figure of the dungeon master, disturbing grin in place, well used lash in hand. Arthur met his gaze squarely. If his stomach deigned to pull some wild acrobatics, no one but himself was the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun duuuuuuun.....
> 
> Uh oh. I think we all know where that is going. *insert evil laughter here*
> 
> Anyways, let me know what you think- constructive critique is welcome! Just don't hate on me too hard XD


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy, I got through another chapter already, and I like this one, so I'll post it now. The first few chapters are a bit shorter than the later ones, so they'll be a bit quicker for that I suppose.
> 
> Things get a little more bloody in this one, just a warning. Though if you're here, I guess you don't mind ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

Skellik was followed into the cell by a hulking brute with a crossbow, which was immediately pointed in Arthur’s direction. The dungeon master greeted them with a dramatic sweeping gesture and short bow. He seemed entirely too cheerful for Arthur’s liking, too in his element. He held his gaze unflinching, not acknowledging the mocking bow.

“I thought it was time to properly get to know one another.” Skellik said. “Remove your jacket and tunic.” 

“Excuse me?” Arthur blinked. Hello to you too. 

“I’d like to get to know you,” he repeated cordially, “figure out the dynamic of our relationship going forward.” He raised the lash and gave it a little shake. “Take off your jacket and tunic.” 

Arthur stared incredulously. Fine, he’d play. Eyeballing the crossbow briefly, he turned back to Skellik cooly, “Alright. You’ll need to unchain me of course.” Perhaps he could rush the lackey while he was distracted by the keys. In all honesty, he was willing to risk a bolt to the chest to escape a man that enthusiastic with a whip. 

“Arthur…” Merlin groaned through his teeth. He had moved back up to his feet unsteadily. Arthur silenced him with a glare.

The dungeon master grinned slyly. He nodded to the brute who moved to Merlin’s side and shifted the crossbow to his scrawny neck instead. Skellik took out a pair of keys from his coat pocket and freed Arthur’s wrists himself. Arthur resisted the urge to rub at the raw skin there.

He sighed internally. He couldn’t risk taking out the guard with Merlin held at arrowpoint. Time for a different tactic.

“My servant is innocent in this,” Arthur said casually, not wanting to seem fond of the man. Friends could be used as leverage, and he didn’t like where Skellik was heading down that path. He began very slowly taking off his jacket, pulling one sleeve off at a time, stalling. “He’s useless to you, all he knows is how to care for my horses. I’d take it as a sign of goodwill in our, uh, budding relationship, if you were to let him go.” 

He carefully folded his jacket and set it on the stone floor as nonchalantly as if he was back in the comfort of his chambers in Camelot rather than preparing himself for a flogging. If Merlin took advantage of the situation, he’d act on it; if he simply got out of here, he’d be just as glad.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Skellik feigned giving the request due consideration and Arthur’s faint hopes of his weak tactic working fizzled out. “Can’t have him loose in the countryside, tongue a wagging. I think we’ll keep him around for a bit. Besides, I might enjoy his company too. Do get on with it your highness, or are you afraid to catch cold?”

Arthur pulled his tunic over his head and took that brief moment with his face hidden to close his eyes and steel his expression into one of indifference. Right, definitely the cold was what had him worried. He’d seen plenty of floggings under his father’s rule, and had even sentenced a few himself. They were never pretty. He’d been trained to handle his share of pain in his upbringing as a knight of Camelot, in addition to being one who had to maintain the dignity of his position, but he had never been subjected to a lashing before. He’d seen it reduce men to tears and screams. No, he hardened himself. He would conduct himself as befitted a warrior, a king. He hadn’t even been asked any questions yet. This, he felt, really was just an introduction to terror.

He set his tunic on top of the jacket. Skellik jerked his chin impatiently towards the metal ring behind him, and Arthur turned and took hold of it, bearing his back to a sadist. He wasn’t even rechained to it; he hung on grimly, arms stretched over his head. Beside him Merlin was breathing heavily and twisting his chains in his hands in dread. Arthur met his eyes before he could do anything stupid and brave, shaking his head minutely and giving what he hoped was a small reassuring smile.

With no more warning other than the sounds of his settling into position, and dozens of knotted leather cords whipping through the air, Skellik brought the scourge down across Arthur’s unblemished back. 

Arthur arched back against the sudden flare of pain, not quite able to keep in a startled grunt. It had in fact hurt more than he was expecting. His hold on the metal hoop tightened to a white knuckled grip as his reflexes for self preservation kicked in, making him want to let go and fly upon his aggressor. The bolt was still at Merlin’s throat; he would have to endure this until he found an opening.

“Not bad, not bad” Skellik assessed, a connoisseur of pain. “Think you’re made of stern stuff, do you?” 

The air whistled warning again and the lash came down a second time. Arthur was ready this time, swallowing the grunt in his throat before it came out and remaining ridgid. Skellik chuckled in morbid appreciation, and brought it down again. Again. And again.

At first, each blow was distinct and brightly agonizing, the intensity fading some before the next blow struck. Arthur held fast to his handhold, eyes clenched shut and face pressed to the damp stone wall. It was arduous, yet he held firm, refusing to give Skellik the satisfaction of any further reaction. But after the seventh or eighth lashing, the pain began to stop fading. It built upon each previous pain until his whole back was surely white hot to look at, despite the red blood he could feel oozing out of hundreds of long thin gashes, and as he began to feel more and more overwhelmed, so too grew the intensity of his fear. The lashes just kept coming, and soon he was breathing in ragged gasps between blows and his body began to tremble with the strain of keeping control.

Finally, an expected lash did not fall, and without opening his eyes he heard the dungeon master move from his position behind him. His relief was so great he felt awash with shame at it, and cursed himself a coward. He opened his eyes, damp with betraying tears trying to make their escape. He blinked them away hastily. Blood had seeped into his mouth from where he had bit at it, and he spat out a gob of it onto the flagstones at his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Merlin was beside himself. He was breathing heavily through his nose as his hands tightly covered his mouth, completely ignoring the arrow at his neck. Did he look so bad then? Arthur thought.

“Impressive your highness,” Skellik strolled between him and Merlin to get a look at his victim’s face. Arthur turned, met his eyes and held them, willing as much venom to cross to the other as possible. “Most men, even the strong ones, do start to flag a bit at this point. I think I like you.”

“Can’t say I feel the same,” Arthur said thickly through swollen lips. He was gratified, at least, to hear his voice was both steady and sardonic in tone.

Skellik chuckled again, the sound as vile to Arthur’s ears as the putrid wet that coated the chamber’s floor. “Indeed, indeed,” the horrid man agreed genially. “Yes, I think I’ll go and prepare a room for you now. We have some things that need discussing. We’ll have some fun, you and I” The sick gleam to his eye as he said this made Arthur want to vomit.

Skellik turned heel and swept out of the room in high spirits, his henchman backing out behind him, crossbow ready, and closed the door. As soon as the weapon was no longer aimed in their direction, Arthur rushed stumbling to the door, but was unable to accomplish anything before the bolt was audibly turned and locked.

Arthur wanted to scream, to pound on the door with frustration; anger, pain and humiliation threatening to overpower him. With iron will he reigned himself in, strode back to the wall of chains opposite and braced his hands upon it, head hanging down between shaking arms. 

Merlin finally moved from his frozen position. Arthur heard him open and close his mouth a few times, throat working but not quite forming words. “Arthur? Are you… alright?” he finally managed, voice saturated with anxiety and concern. Arthur had to turn away from him for a moment, hating to have an audience for his vulnerability. 

“I’m fine Merlin,” he lied, too drained to mock him for the stupidity of the question. He knew his servant wouldn’t buy it, but what else was he going to say? He felt as if his back was being shredded by scorching claws unendingly, and wanted to collapse onto the floor and have a good cry. Then he felt he wanted to find the nearest height and fling himself off for shame of it. Instead he shoved his lowly human impulses back and began to prowl the room. He had not been put back into chains, and intended to take advantage of that lack of judgement.

But the door was as unyielding as it looked, kicking through the moldy straw revealed no useful object of any kind, and not even the wooden bucket was heavy enough to bash a head in. This last at least he could nudge in Merlin’s direction lest he wished to use it. Pissing off to the side at their eventual necessity had not lent the room a more charming air. Not that it could get much filthier.

At last, Arthur positioned himself beside the door, leaning against the wall gingerly on his right arm. When the door opened again he’d throw himself through, crossbow or no. He’d try to take out the guard entirely, and get to Skellik for the keys. If the guard was still fit for fighting after, he’d try to shove the dungeon master in Merlin’s direction and go back to the guard, who looked like the better fighter of the two. He warned Merlin of his plan quietly, lest his voice penetrate the door. Merlin nodded, face determined, braver than Arthur would usually admit outloud. He hoped it worked; it was all he had.

They had a wait of some length. Whatever Skellik had to do to ‘prepare a room’, it seemed to take some time. Arthur leaned heavily against the wall and willed his limbs not to falter. He didn’t dare take a rest on the floor, fearing he would not be able to rise again swiftly enough. He was beginning to grow stiff, the blood on his back starting to coagulate, cracking and reopening painfully at the slightest movement. His usual stores of energy had also taken a hit from prolonged hunger. Pain, and the wake of the leaving rush of adrenaline he’d experienced during his introduction, so to speak, did not help. 

Eventually their patience was rewarded by the sounds of footfall in the corridor outside. Arthur moved to a half-crouch, ready to pounce. As the key turned, he felt a surge of hope. Finally he felt a sliver of control on their situation. Now he was in his element. Superficial injury such as he bore would not quell his fighter’s spirit, he would not allow it.

The door pushed open and the brute with the crossbow took a step forward, weapon drawn in front of him. Arthur sprung forward, snatching the crossbow before it could come into play and throwing it behind him, careful to twist the bolt to the wall lest it spring loose when it hit the stone. The guard was quick to retaliate and knocked aside the blow to his face that followed, sending his own punch to the king’s face. Arthur rolled with the punch, unable to block in time. He felt blood spurt from his bruised nose, but ignored it. Twisting, he grabbed the guards arm and shoulder before he could regain balance. He pushed the bastard’s face down to meet an upthrust knee, then threw him bodily into the cell. Arthur did not wait to see him hit the floor, instead turning his attention to Skellik.

The dungeon master stood in the doorway, watching Arthur take out his man. Arthur watched his expression turn from genuine surprise to something like fiendish delight. Not stopping to ponder the moods of a madman, Arthur snarled his defiance and pounced.

The man moved with unprecedented speed past his reach and into the cell. Caught by surprise, Arthur staggered forward into the corridor. The flash of recognition that he could make a run for it then was not even considered. He would not leave Merlin in Skellik’s hands, even to get away to break him out later.

Just as he turned back towards the room he heard Merlin’s shout of warning.

“Arthur! He has ma--”

He didn’t hear the rest over the sudden roaring in his ears, but he didn’t have to. He found himself being lifted off the floor by an invisible force pressing him in on all sides until it abruptly tossed him straight back into the room at Skellik’s feet. The sorcerer was smiling in obvious pleasure. He’d simply been standing and watching Arthur as he’d been granted a sudden opportunity to escape, and had grinned wider still when it became clear Arthur had no intention of leaving quite yet. It was then that he had raised a casual hand and brought Arthur under his control.

Arthur landed hard on his front, scraping across the stone on his bare chest. A pained grunt escaped from clenched jaws as the violent motion pulled his back muscles and gave him new bruises. Arthur forced himself back up to hands and knees immediately, but was halted from rising further by the force of Skellik’s power.

“That’s far enough now, I think” Skellik said, walking around the cell to casually survey the damage. The grunt was just sitting up now, wiping gingerly at the blood streaming out an obviously crushed nose. Arthur was satisfied to hear the wet, bubbling breaths and coughs as the guard hacked on the blood pouring down his throat. “That really was impressive,” Skellik continued, halting his surveyance in front of Arthur. “Honestly I was hoping for something of the like. I do enjoy a subject with venom.”

“Let me up and I’ll give you venom,” Arthur spat, breathing heavily.

“No doubt, no doubt,” Skellik agreed. “Well, let’s have you on your feet at least. I have some questions I’d like to ask you.” The pressure ceased, and Arthur was able to stand. He considered staying on the floor for a moment, just to be contrary, but being prone on his knees hardly felt rebellious. He stood straight and proud instead, meeting the eyes of the man who held him under his utter control.

“I have some questions of my own’” said Arthur, voice hard. “I demand to know what is going on here. You do seem to know who I am, but you don’t seem to realize the danger you’ve brought upon yourself by this venture. Where have I been taken? Who is this king you claim to represent, and what does he want with me? Have I offended him in some way? Are you looking for war?! _Answer me dammit!_ ” he roared, losing control of his temper as Skellik simply stared, smile growing wider as Arthur spoke on.

“Have you offended my king?” Skellik asked, ignoring Arthur’s outburst. “Well yes, yes you have, but your father is really the true villain in this tale. Now he is dead of course, Cailleach have and hold him, but you have hardly proven yourself a worthy successor now have you? The war on magic continues to be fought, and this does, indeed, offend my Lord Antony Savage. Camelot does not yet recognize the authority of my king, but it will Arthur. It will, now that I have you.” 

“Savage?” Arthur asked, confused. Did he know the name? He could not be certain, but he didn’t think so. “If your _lord_ ,” he spat the word, “condones the use of dark magics, as I have witnessed here from you today, then yes. Your actions do condemn you. I have given my respect to the druids, who’s practices do no harm. But this? This is why the war on sorcery began.”

“Dark magics?” Skellik asked lightly, “I simply use a tool at my command. You fight with a sword, I, with words of power.”

“I’ve seen sorcery twist men. That kind of power bends to evil too easily. Look at you--you seek to cause me pain, and for what? Your sick pleasure? You’ve yet to offer any reason but that.” 

Merlin stood to the side, eyes round as coins, completely absorbed by the argument in from of him. It wasn’t like him to be so silent, but Arthur was grateful. He didn’t want him to become another subject of interest to a sadist.

“Punishment!” Skellik barked, the first show of deep emotion he’d shown. “And need. I won’t deny I do take pleasure in it. But your father is the cause of great injustice in this kingdom, and I’ve seen little reason to think you’re different. No. No, my lord, my King Savage, it is he who deserves to wear the crown. After what’s been taken from him by those who’ve sat that throne, it’s what he deserves. His blood’s as noble as yours--more so! Yet he lives as an outcast from society. He will bring the kingdom back to its former glory. Magic will reign again!” 

With that, Skellik’s eyes flashed gold, and he clenched a fist in a fit of passion in front of him. Arthur cried out, taken completely by surprise by a burst of agony in his head. Peripherally, he saw Merlin jerk his hand out, as if he could stop the assault. Arthur bit back further sounds of anguish, baring his teeth and holding his head in his hands. Just as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. Arthur’s arms dropped back down to his sides, and he let out a breath of relief, mentally kicking himself for the small pathetic sound that came out with it. 

Skellik’s outburst seemed to disappear with the same haste. Now he was watching Arthur get a hold on himself with his usual bland amusement.

We’ll be late to our appointment,” he said mildly. “Shall we?” He gestured to the open door. The guard, who had been watching quietly in the corner for the past several minutes preceded them through wordlessly, grabbing the crossbow on his way out. Arthur hesitated, only for a moment, glaring daggers at Skellik. But he knew the sorcerer could force him to go with or without his say so, so he squared his shoulders and stood to his full height, and turned to the exit on his own agency. 

He spared a fleeting look towards Merlin, but could not bring any words of comfort to mind. Merlin seemed likewise at an uncharacteristic loss, mouth hanging loosely ajar. Without saying anything, he left, following the guard down the corridor, Skellik locking the door and strolling along behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review?? Be a dear and tell me what you think??


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so here's one of the chapters that required the mature rating. 
> 
> Honestly I have no idea how 'bad' this will be as like, a community standard, but if anyone thinks this should be rated explicit rather than Mature, let me know? Though I feel like maybe its not that bad.
> 
> Anyway, if you are a torture fic connoisseur or something, feel free to rate my harshness, for my own curiosity's sake XD It ain't over...

The chamber to which Arthur was led was at the very end of the corridor, the farthest reaches of the moldering depths it seemed, though it was only a short way down from their cell. The corridor was unlit, perhaps simply for the chilling effect it wrought. Light from the other end of the hall shed just enough to get by, reflecting off dully glistening stone. The overall dampness of the place became more pronounced the further along they walked, and Arthur was soon stepping through shallow puddles of slimy liquids he didn’t want to think about. Probably just water, but the closer they got to the door at the end of the hallway, the more acutely he was aware of a disturbing bouquet; old blood, bile, and fear, among other unmentionable things. He swallowed, fighting back his own impulse to add to the mix as his gorge rose.

The guard pushed the unlocked doors open, and Arthur followed, halting in the entrance. Skellik wafted in from behind and entered his realm, sweeping out an arm as he turned in place theatrically in some form of welcome. Arthur wanted to be sick. 

The room was fairly large; chains hung from the ceiling over various points of interest, such as beds for coals and tubs of fetid water. Instruments of torture, the uses of many Arthur could only guess at, were kept in loving display on walls or set tidily on work benches. Torches burned at intervals, keeping the room well lit and bouncing a flickering light eerily off the water in the tub and the metal parts of the tools. A well tended brazier fire sat cheerily in one corner, keeping the room at an incongruously comfortable temperature. All the more to contrast with the horror, Arthur figured. No chance of a friendly numbing cold. That and the thing bristled with a fine selection of metal implements, ends glowing white. 

In the center of the room there was a wheeled table outfitted with both metal manacles and leather straps, and mechanisms that seemed to grant it the ability to tilt one way or the other. One corner had a doorway leading to steps that quickly curved out of view, winding up a corner tower likely. Another corner was hidden from view by a room divider. Perhaps a personal retreat for an overworked interrogator. In an effort to abate his apprehension, Arthur tried to keep his internal monologue sarcastic. He hoped it world start working soon.

“You may go. Get that nose taken care of.” Skellik dismissed the guard brusquely. “The young king knows who’s in charge, doesn’t he?” He turned to Arthur expectantly.

“You may have some control over my body for the moment, Skellik, but don’t think for a moment that that power extends to my mind as well” He spoke as if he sat in judgment upon his throne rather than stood a captive in that evil place.

“We will see, won’t we,” Skellik said, undeterred. “Everyone has a breaking point, your highness. Now,” He clapped his hands, “let’s begin. Clothes, off. You can do it yourself or I can do it for you,” he added, seeing Arthur stiffen. “There’s a chamber pot behind that screen. Do feel free to use it. No need to make a messy business that much messier.”

Arthur bristled at the implication that he’d soil himself, but decided to go along with it for the moment. If he acted meekly for a time he could perhaps take Skellik by surprise. He stalked behind the privacy screen, set up for the dungeon master’s comfort rather than his own, no doubt. He made use of the facilities and removed the rest of his clothing. Not a hugely bashful man by nature, he was more appalled at the idea of someone else taking his clothing off for him. He settled his folded trousers on top of his boots and strode out from behind the screen. He refused to look shamed by his bareness. Surreptitiously he began looking around for a weapon while he walked slowly about the room.

“Tell me,” Arthur said, stalling for time, “what heinous crimes does your lord feel my father made against him. Obviously magic was involved, but I don’t recall hearing of any particular incident involving a noble family. Why has he waited for over two decades for revenge?”

Skellik had briefly looked like he was about to laugh at Arthur’s brazenness, watching the man stroll naked past instruments of pain as if he was at a garden party, but his expression soon darkened on behalf of his master’s plight.

“Uther’s crimes _were_ heinous, boy!” Skellik growled, “Lord Savage’s son was sentenced to burn, he and the boy’s mother! And for what? Young Henrik used his power to defend his men in battle, that they would win swiftly with less loss of life. His mother died with him, simply for teaching the boy the old ways. Those two both and many besides! My lord, my king, survived only because he was thought dead--killed for fighting in defence for his son’s life. But he lived. Transported away by his son’s mother’s hand even as she screamed and burned, leaving a shadow of his corpse behind, an illusion. It took time to regain his strength, body and mind injured, men of his house scattered at the supposed death of their master. Only a loyal few remained to help him.” 

Arthur watched as Skellik’s eyes grew almost fevered with passion, especially on the last statement. Clearly Skellik was one of the loyal few. His father’s son, Arthur did not consider magic, especially in combat, to be right or honorable. He was not without compassion for the man’s loss, but by his actions, however behind the scenes Savage was in ordering the dirty work handled by his men, he had condemned himself an enemy of Camelot. For the second time in so many decades.

“My father is dead,” Arthur stated cooly. “Why has Savage waited so long to make a move? Surely he didn’t need over twenty years?” He walked past a table outfitted with promising blades, noting their positions as he walked a step or two past, getting slowly closer to Skellik.

“Uther was a strong king,” Skellik admitted. “A tyrant. You are no better, but not as... tested.”

Arthur was young then he meant, feeling, Arthur supposed, that that signified weakness. “Your Lord is a coward as well as a traitor then?” Arthur asked, tensing imperceptibly.

As he’d anticipated, Skellik’s loyalty to his master would not take the insult calmly. As the man’s face flushed red and his mouth opened for a snarled retort, Arthur grabbed a long bladed knife from behind him without turning, and leapt.

Skellik was so caught off guard that he stumbled back, tripping on the hem of the long coat he wore. Mouth opened in a soundless O Arthur would have laughed at in other circumstances, and eyes just as wide, he fell back and hit the floor. 

Arthur was on top of him in barest moments, knife slashing to the sorcerers throat. Just as the blade came down, Skellik threw up his hands and Arthur went flying backwards. Heart in his mouth, he hit the wheeled table with a crash, and cried out as his flayed back struck its wooden side. He landed in a heap on the floor, and the force that had pushed him through the air was upon him again. His ears roared with the pressure and he struggled to move. 

Skellik was coming at him, face red with fury, knife in hand. Arthur was pushed flat to the ground, Unable to do more than twitch an inch in any direction, he felt mired in an invisible, sticky sludge. He bared his teeth and hissed as his back scraped the floor. He could feel his blood running thick and warm as the freshly closed scabs tore open. Then, Skellik was standing above him, and he plunged the knife deep into Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur screamed, the pain was incredible. It forced all other thoughts out of his head; all he could do was lay back and experience it. He was barely aware of being lifted by magic to the tabletop and laid on its surface. His back settling down on it paled in comparison to the knife in his leg.

Slowly he got himself under control again, and he lay immobile, panting heavily through gritted teeth, biting back any additional sounds. Skellik walked round the table, corner to corner, briskly attaching shackles to each wrist and ankle, pulling the chains taught so Arthur lay spread eagle and vulnerable. By the time he was tied, Skellik seemed to have regained most of his composure, and he lifted the magic.

“No reason to tire myself out,” he explained. “That’s what chains are for. That was foolish, Arthur. Brave, but foolish.” As if to drive his point home, he suddenly grabbed the knife hilt and gave it a violent twist. Arthur couldn’t help but scream again, forcing it out in broken sobs through his teeth, unable to keep it back. Skellik smiled his mild smile and released the knife, leaving it imbedded in Arthur’s leg.

Arthur’s fear had reached a new high point. He’d suffered stab wounds in combat before, but laying in wait for that much pain without the anesthetic effect of a fighter’s adrenaline was an entirely different experience. He had once admitted to Merlin that he feared pain, but he had never been so aware of how much. He fought the rising panic. No, he berated himself. You’re done being weak. Get a hold of yourself, you’re better than this. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, laboriously calming his breathing, and wiped his face clear of expression. 

“Now then. I have some questions for you,” Skellik began the interrogation. “We’ll start with your troops…”

Arthur listened as Skellik ran through a short list of questions about the state, position, size and make up of his army, then to the layout and weaknesses of the castle. A thorough knowledge of which would put Camelot at a distinct disadvantage in even a small armed attack. Dangerous information. Any of his higher ranking knights could answer some of the questions, but only the king knew it all. It was a matter of the utmost safety that only one man knew the whole picture; it also painted a very large target on Arthur’s back.

Arthur laughed humorlessly, holding Skellik’s gaze. “You can’t think I’d tell you any of that.” 

“I do think you’ll tell me as a matter of fact,” Skellik said, “if not now than later. We’ve waited a long time for this, we have plenty of time to work it out of you. And I do intend to enjoy myself.” Skellik took a small blade and made a practiced show of flashing the torchlight off its edge before slowly lowering it to the sensitive exposed skin of Arthur’s stomach. “And we do in fact, know some of the answers, so don’t think I won’t know if you lie.”

Arthur braced himself, and this time when a knife pierced his flesh he made no more sound than a sharp intake of breath. He strained against the chains on his wrists, muscles of his arms and abdomen taught as Skellik parted his skin in a slow and delicate dance with the blade. 

He did this in several tender areas on Arthur’s abdomen, slowly, so slowly lighting curving lines of fire across his skin. Arthur closed his eyes and breathed. He desperately concentrated on the breath going rapidly in and out of his lungs, trying to make that his only thought. It wasn’t really working. Skellik didn’t stop his careful onslaught, going to one area straight to the next without pause. Soon Arthur was panting heavily through his nose. He felt sweat pouring off his face, beading on his skin, stinging as it got into the shallow cuts Skellik was so carefully inscribing. His body twitched and squirmed at the knife’s touch, but he refused to make a sound. When Arthur thought there might be a half dozen or so shapes etched into his skin, though truly he’d lost count and the pain blurred across his entire chest and belly, Skellik stopped.

“Answer just one little question and I’ll give you a breather,” Skellik offered, putting down the bloody knife and exchanging it for a pair of wicked looking pliers as Arthur turned and watched. “Or…”

Arthur, still breathing hard, snorted loudly. He did not, he really really did not want the pliers. He refused to acknowledge the pliers. He also had no intention of answering any questions. Instead he turned his head back straight and stared into the middle-distance and breathed some more. It seemed like the best option.

Skellik quirked an eyebrow, though whether in amusement or asservation, Arthur couldn’t guess. The pliers came down, grabbed a bite of lacerated flesh, and pulled.

There was no holding back this time. A howl ripped from Arthur’s throat despite his desperate attempt to hold it in. Skellik was peeling back flaps of his skin, ever so carefully revealing raw glistening flesh not meant to see the light of day. Instead of a blurring of pain across his entire torso, he suddenly felt as though his entire being was reduced to that single area of unbearable agony. His mind’s eye was focused absolutely on the feeling of his skin ripping away from muscle, fibre by excruciating fibre. His teeth ground together, unable to stem the sounds of his pain, his limbs trembled with the effort of getting away. By the time Skellik had finished with the first flap, Arthur was sobbing. Skellik continued to the next.

With the precision of an experienced torturer, Skellik stopped the assault as Arthur’s vision began to grey at the edges, and he threatened to pass out. Arthur reached out longingly to the promise of oblivion, but Skellik dipped a pitcher of water from the tub and threw it over his face. Arthur gasped and sputtered, coughing as the foul stuff poured into his mouth. The sudden jerk of his body wrenched his every wound and he groaned. He was not sure how much more he could take. Yet he knew he would keep on taking it, just the same.

“You have incredible endurance you know,” Skellik admitted freely. “I often have to force men back to consciousness after that much. If they get that far. Water?” 

He offered Arthur a drink from what little remained in the pitcher. Arthur grimaced, averting his head without a word from the reeking liquid, despite being parched nearly beyond bearing. Skellik laughed and dumped it on the floor.

“Hmm..” Skellik hummed as he looked over the length of Arthur’s body. “Perhaps enough blood drawn for today. Can’t have you dying on me so soon now can we. No, that won’t do.” He pulled on his mouth and chin, the very picture of indecision. Arthur laid in a sticky puddle of his own blood, far passed watching the man’s performance. “There’s lots we can do without you losing much more. Unless you want to give me a little something?”

Arthur shuddered and screwed his face into a defiant scowl. No, he would not give in. He could not. His kingdom depended on the strength of its king. He would not fail them. 

“Not yet? Very well.”

Skellik, not discouraged, waved a hand and said something foreign, and the heavy table he lay on rumbled forward several paces on its own accord. Nearly directly overhead the new position were a set of chains and manacles. These lowered as Skellik wound a winch on the wall until they hovered somewhere just past the top of Arthur’s head. Skellik attached these on Arthur’s wrists one at a time before releasing the ones on the table. As each arm was free, Arthur carefully brought them towards the wounds on his stomach, craning his neck and investigating them with shaking hands. 

Five great flaps of skin had been torn away from the muscles of his chest and abdomen, each roughly the size of the palm of his hand. They hung gaping, oozing blood sluggishly, not enough yet for anything near death, but his head spun unpleasantly. To be fair though, he reasoned, that could be due to a good deal of other problems. 

When both arms were free of the table, Arthur slowly pushed himself up to a seated position. His tormented back stuck to the table, and he grunted as he pulled himself loose. The flayed sections his stomach and the knife still embedded in his thigh burned when he used the muscles there. Damned if he’d let Skellik rip him off the table himself though. The dungeon master watched his efforts from where he stood unlocking Arthur’s ankles and rechaining them together. 

“Don’t get any ideas now, or I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

Come a little closer and I’ll show you an idea I’m having, Arthur thought bitterly, wishing he could wrap the chains around Skellik’s wicked neck. He knew they would not reach. So did the grinning Skellik. He settled for an icy glare.

Using the winch again, Arthur’s arms were hauled over his head until he was hanging part way off the table. With a flick of the wrist, the table was shoved back and Arthur was hanging off the floor. Within moments, a gentle pit pat echoed in the room; Arthur’s blood dripping to the stone floor.

The metal locked around his wrists cut into his flesh there. Whatever craftsman had made them had not bothered to smooth them any. Probably deliberate; his wrists would be bit to the bone after any length of time hanging like this, especially if he felt the need to struggle. His new position also stretched the skin around his wounds in new and painful ways. Arthur could hear Skellik moving about behind him, but he took the moment instead to try and rebuild a few of his mental walls. Camelot, he thought, think only of Camelot. They need you. Camelot needs you to be strong.

Quite without warning a very solid blow struck him in the side. It drove all air out of his lungs, and Arthur gaped soundlessly, fighting to get it back. Finally, coughing and choking, he got in a wheezing lungful of air. Before he truly got his breath back, he was struck hard in the gut. He choked on a cry as his skinned flesh was hit, and his stomach finally rebelled, spewing out its meager contents all over his front and onto the floor. Skellik came out from behind him with a heavy club in hand. His next blow took Arthur in the ribs before he’d even stopped gagging and heaving, a bone breaking with an audible crack.

The blows never stopped coming long enough for Arthur to gain a sense of control over himself. Again and again they fell, always somewhere fresh and painful. He cried out as another rib broke. He felt sure his organs must be rupturing, so badly did his insides hurt. He screamed when the club came smashing down on his right knee, feeling the bones there crunch. The next hit fell much higher, catching his sword hand. More than one bone broke there. 

He twisted and struggled uselessly, desperate to get away from the onslaught. He kicked out when he thought Skellik was in range, even though the pain from his shattered knee created white spots that danced before his eyes, but he never hit his target. It would never stop, he knew, the pain would never stop. He was sick with fear of it, wouldn’t it ever stop? When the club collided with his upper sword arm with another sickening crack of bone, Arthur finally found peace in unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Arthur. Sorry, not sorry buddy. I swear I love you.
> 
> Next chapter is finally Merlin's turn, so stay tuned to see why he hasn't busted them out already!
> 
> All the next chapters are also a bit, to a fair bit longer, fyi


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here's Merlin! At long last, we'll see what he's up to.
> 
> Enjoy a little hurt/comfort for a bit. Take a little break from the brutality. *Evil snickering*

Merlin sat alone in the cell, now darkened by the late fall evening. His knees he huddled up to his chin as best he could, arms unable to reach down to hug them tight. He wanted to though, and not just from the cold. He slowly rocked backwards and forwards where he sat, listening. The screams, oh the screams. They were intermittent, but when they came... oh, he had not known Arthur capable of voicing such anguish. He wished he could cover his ears, but that would be a form of betrayal wouldn't it? The least he could do was endure the distant sounds, bear a sort of witness to Arthur's suffering as he fought to keep his kingdom’s secrets to himself. 

It had been one of the most singularity awful experiences of his full young life, the flogging. Being right next to the one person he was meant to protect above all others, and being unable to do a thing to save him. Standing next to him, being spattered by his friend’s blood, and watching as he struggled more and more against the pain. Arthur had looked up at him after, clearly trying to look better than he must have felt, but all Merlin had seen in his eyes was the fear he was desperately trying to hide. Arthur was as afraid of pain as any man, he had once said so himself. Seeing the evidence had begun the cracking Merlin felt in his heart, and the fissures were spreading as he listened to the screams in the distance.

It was about the only thing he could do, listening. The chains that bound his wrists somehow locked up his magic as well, some sort of ensorcellment that kept his magic confined in his body. He had rarely felt so utterly useless. When the men had ambushed them in the woods they had been terribly outnumbered. Still, Arthur had fought valiantly, Merlin helping unseen, taking out a couple more with magic. But there had been many, and they were two. He'd been dragged off his horse and stunned. By the time he'd regained his wits, he was chained to the cart, and they were blindfolding him. The last thing he’d seen was the men flinging a deeply unconscious Arthur over the back of his own horse. 

Merlin had immediately tried to free himself repeatedly of course, but those chains had been enchanted as well. Now that he knew they belonged to a dungeon master with sorcery, and a presumed dead noble who condoned the old religion, he supposed it must be their usual precaution, rather than a specific precaution for him. No one, at least, had given any indication that Merlin was a man to be reckoned with. Most days. 

The screams had ceased coming for a while. Merlin started out of his fug of dark thoughts at the realization. He was afraid of the implication, but surely they'd keep Arthur alive? Unless they'd managed to break him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to believe that. Arthur had to be alive. 

He perked up at the distance sound of footsteps in the corridor outside a short time later. There were two sets he thought, coming closer. Slowly though, one he thought shuffled a bit awkwardly. Arthur? Injured obviously, but able to walk himself back to the cell to rest?

The steps paused at the door. The key turned, and the door swung open. The sun having set some little while ago, the only real light came from a torch held by one of the visitors. As such, Merlin could not immediately translate what he was seeing in the entrance, his eyes temporarily blinded in the firelight. 

Then the guard he recognized from earlier shuffled in backwards, dragging something heavy in his hands. He gave a sudden heave, and Arthur was flung naked and bleeding into the cell at Merlin's feet. Obviously stone out cold, if not dead. No, he couldn’t be dead!

Merlin cried out in horror and outrage, "what have you done with him?!"

"He wasn't terribly cooperative," Skellik admitted, coming next into the room and waving the guard out. He flourished a wooden bucket and a bowl, one in each hand, and set them down off to one side. Merlin ignored these and tugged at his chains uselessly, bruising his already sore wrists, but how could he care? Not with Arthur unconscious, just out of reach, dying on the cold wet floor.

"Please," he begged, wrenching his eyes away from Arthur's ruined body and fixing a desperate blue gaze at Skellik instead. "Let me see to him at least! He can't be any use to you dead!"

"As a matter of fact, you've read my mind," Skellik pulled a set of ankle cuffs from a coat pocket and shook them lightly. "Can't have you too free to move about though, in case you prove as much of a rebel as your king here," he grinned.

"Fine, get on with it then," Merlin snapped. "Unlock me!"

"Tsk tsk, feet first boyo"

Merlin huffed in exasperation, thrusting his feet forward. It’d been worth a try.

As soon as his feet were locked together and his wrists free, he tried to reach his magic. Just as before, it was blocked from leaving his body, the new damn cuffs being magicked too. Skellik locked the chains back on to the iron hoop, taking the potentially useful item out of the equation. Never mind, see to Arthur first. 

He crawled awkwardly to his friend, feet stuck within an inch each other. Arthur really did look dead, so pale was his skin. Where it showed. But his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Most of him was smeared with blood, the grime from the floor getting into his many wounds. Bile was splashed down his front and spattered about his mouth. Where his skin showed beneath this, most was bruised red and swollen. Or hanging off of him in tattered pieces he noticed, fighting back a gag. His right arm was clearly broken above the elbow, as were at least two fingers of that hand. The handle of a knife stuck out of a thigh. He looked so broken, Merlin hesitated even to touch him. He could feel his hands shaking as they hovered over his body in indecision.

“Why,” Merlin whispered hoarsely, he fought back tears. “You have magic. You didn’t have to--” he choked, “why like this?” He looked back up at Skellik. 

“There’s more to torture than mere pain, boy. They fear the damage you see. How do you think your king will feel, realizing he’ll never hold a sword to fight again? Never move without limping. You have to give them that fear. The longer they hold out, the bleaker their future becomes. Not that they usually have a future of course, but they do try to hold on for it. You have to kill the hope.”

Merlin was too sick for words. Skellik was smiling. He spoke of this with genuine _passion_. Merlin shook his head in disgust, curses forming at once in his mouth before splintering against each other, too numerous to come out at once.

“A moment,” Skellik stepped over to stand over Arthur’s other side. His eyes flashed gold as he muttered an incantation too softly for Merlin to hear. Arthur did not move except perhaps to breath a little easier. “I healed his internal wounds and slowed the bleeding some, so he may live to see the dawn.” He walked back to the door, and paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Figuratively speaking of course.” He strode out the door, ugly laughter echoing loudly off the corridor walls even after he slammed shut and locked the door.

* * * * * * *

The bucket proved to be filled with a decent ration of reasonably fresh water, and the bowl, a serving of thin gruel that would almost be generous if meant for one person. Merlin took the water over to Arthur first, gently propping his chest and head up a bit to pour a small stream over his chapped lips. Most spilled down his chin and off his neck to the floor, but some he reflexively sipped at and swallowed. Merlin then allowed himself a mouthful or two, taking a headache he hadn’t even noticed he’d had down a notch or two. The rest he saved for later.

Next Merlin took off his jacket, tunic and scarf. He redonned his jacket, for the chill, but ripped up his shirt for cloths and bandages. It was unfortunately the cleanest material available, which didn’t say much for the state of it. Arthur still had his own tunic and coat folded by the wall, but he’d need to keep him warm as well. Merlin hoped it wouldn’t go below freezing again that night. 

 

He dipped the scarf in the water, not entirely sure where to start. He decided he’d do the front first, as it was bared already, and the wounds there were deeper than the lashes on Arthur’s back. The stab wound in his leg had stopped bleeding, and wouldn’t until he pulled the blade out. Oh how he wished for a needle and thread. A little healing salve. Clean bandages. Gaius, and Camelot… another container. That last he might be able to do something about, he thought. For the rest, wishing would do no good, so he banished the unhelpful thoughts from his mind.

Merlin crawled to the empty bucket that had been in the cell when they arrived. He hadn’t used it, too dehydrated by now to have needed to. Was it clean? He picked it up and peered inside. A little dusty. He wiped a cobweb and a dead spider out with one hand. He gave it a good sniff. It didn’t actually seem to have been used as a latrine before. Likely it was just an abandoned water bucket much like the one they’d been brought. A single stroke of good fortune for the last four and a half days. He’d take what he could get, he supposed. He carried it back to Arthur.

About half of their water supply he poured into the empty bucket and set aside for drinking later. He’d take a little more later if he needed it. Starting with the ugly, gaping wounds on Arthur’s stomach, which worried Merlin the most, he began gently wiping them clean of debris. They’d bled a great deal, dripping blood all the way down to Arthur’s bare feet. Normally that would be good in that bleeding wounds were flushed of fever causing material, but these left the flesh bared, skin hanging. He cleaned each one as best he could, and carefully placed the skin back over each. Once he finished with the lashes on his back, Merlin would apply bandages, hopefully keeping the loose skin in place. It was about all he could do for the broken ribs he’d discovered as well. 

Arthur had begun to stir slightly when he finished with the last of the flayed skin. He hastened to move to the stab wound, preferring to pull the blade out while he was still unconscious. Grabbing a wad of dry cloth, he did so, and as he expected, blood gushed out profusely. He let it briefly, hoping to clear the wound, but dared not let too much out. He wiped the area with a new cloth and wrapped it up tightly. Arthur had twitched when the knife came out, but no more. 

Merlin moved to the arm and mangled hand next, deciding setting bones was likely the next worse thing. Breathing deliberately, blowing each breath out shakily and trying not to throw up, he straightened the two fingers, truly thankful no small splintered bones peeked through the skin. Broken bones were one thing he was quite squeamish of, ever since an unfortunate childhood incident with an unfortunate and clumsy friend. Arthur moaned softly, head turning fitfully, but did not wake up. If the bones of the palm were fractured, there was little he could do. He’d try to whittle splints off one of the buckets with the knife when he was done with it for the fingers. Until then he left them unbandaged.

He gingerly poked his fingers into Arthur’s upper arm. Another low moan. Merlin thought it just needed straightening, but could not be sure. Damning himself for refusing to assist Gaius in the majority of bone settings, he held the arm in one hand, and pulled it true with the other.

Arthur gasped and woke up, making a heart wrenchingly panicked sound in his throat. His eyes flew open and his good arm came up violently to Merlin’s face.

“Woah, Arthur!”, Merlin grabbed the hand and pressed down on the corresponding shoulder, distressed at how easily he could overpower the generally much stronger man. “You’re safe Arthur, it’s me, Merlin! You’re safe!”

Arthur struggled, snarling like a frightened animal, struggling to get away from Merlin, not seeing a friend in Merlin’s face.

“Please Arthur, you’ll hurt yourself, you’re safe!”

“No! No I wo--, I can’t! No, stop, pl--” Arthur was babbling, trying recklessly to move away, reopening wounds. He got stuck several times on a single sound, as if refusing to say the word please; refusing to beg. Tears sprung to Merlin’s eyes again. He let them fall as he begged in his friend’s place.

“Please, Arthur, it’s Merlin!” He pleaded, tears dripping off his quivering chin, “Please you’re hurting yourself! You’re safe! I’m your friend, you’re safe!” He repeated the mantra over and over and over.

Slowly, Arthur grew less frantic. His panicked blue eyes searched the cell for the enemy he was certain was there, eventually settling on Merlin’s face blankly. Merlin saw the moment recognition bloomed in his eyes, and as it did, Arthur sagged, becoming completely liquid under his hands. 

“Merlin…” Arthur breathed, voice raw, shutting his eyes.

“It’s alright Arthur, I’ve got you,” Merlin gently took the hand he’d held on to and laid it on the floor; No spot on Arthur’s chest was undamaged enough. He sniffed loudly and cleared his throat. “I’m just cleaning you up a bit. You’re a little worse for wear.”

A shadow of a smile passed over Arthur’s face and disappeared again. Merlin took up a cloth from the bucket again and tenderly wiped Arthur’s face. The water was by now long running red, but his skin was still far filthier.

The fact that Arthur remained still and let Merlin wash crusted blood, grime and tear tracks from his face worried Merlin. Arthur was not typically a good patient. He wanted a quick bandage and to be gone. Merlin put a hand to his damp forehead. As he feared, he’d already begun to run hot.

“Sire,” Merlin began softly. “I’m sorry, but I have to get the rest of your wounds clean. They’re beginning to fester.” 

Arthur nodded near imperceptibly. Merlin moved around to his head, ready to reach gingerly under his arms. “I’m going to help you sit up. I have to get to your back.” Another ghost of a nod. 

Merlin reached under and pulled him up as gently and directly as he could. Arthur made an effort of his own, pushing up with his good arm, even while he gasped and grunted in pain. The broken arm especially caused him agony to move, as well as a knee that was perhaps more than badly bruised. His back had also began to bleed freely again, weeping not just blood, but a worrying amount of cloudy fluid. At last Arthur sat precariously on his own, back hunched over, head hanging low.

“Have a little water first, sire,” Merlin said, bringing the clean water forward and lifting it to Arthur’s face. Arthur grabbed it shakily with his own arm, shunning Merlin’s help, and lifted his head to drink. “Not too fast or you’ll puke,” Merlin mother-henned him. He was pleased beyond telling when Arthur glared at him over the rim of the bucket, but he kept his face stern and motherly.

Arthur handed the bucket back, panting from the effort of simply drinking, eyes closed. Merlin was putting the bucket back when Arthur spoke again.

“Arthur.” he croaked. His voice had improved marginally from the water.

“Sorry, sire?”

“Not sire. Arthur.” Merlin blinked in surprise. Arthur’s voice faded to barely a whisper. “I’m so tired, Merlin.”

He sounded well beyond tired, thought Merlin, heart breaking again. “We’ll be done soon Arthur, promise.” Arthur merely nodded.

Merlin supposed Arthur wanted the friendliness of his given name rather than a formal title. He’d wanted dearly to comfort his friend of course, but had been afraid of overstepping boundaries and shaming him as well. Any amount of anything that could be called coddling was usually met with scorn. However, In this case, he’d cautiously take Arthur’s odd request as a tiny cry for comfort. Goddess knew, he’d never ask directly. Still, he had never seen the usually stoic man so stripped bare of defenses.

The bloodied and begrimed water in the bucket was finished. Merlin dumped it in a far corner, dragging himself over to pool it in the natural low spot in the room. When he came back, he dumped some of the set aside drinking water into the emptied bucket, grabbed another scrap of cloth, and set up behind Arthur. Dipping the cloth, he warned him gently, “I’m starting now Arthur, I’ll be cold.” Arthur offered a grunt in response.

When Merlin put the cloth to his skin, Arthur hissed sharply, but did not move. His back was beginning to burn hot to the touch with infection. The contrast of the water’s coldness must have been intense, never mind the sting. Merlin carefully wiped each shallow gash, and not a few less shallow ones. He tried to go gently, but he had to get the muck out. It was horribly obvious that Arthur had spent time being dragged on the filthy stone floor. He washed dirt, tiny pieces of stone and who knows what else out of the wounds, and scooped out the pus that was already starting to form in the worst areas. 

By the time he was finished the cleaning, Arthur was trying and failing not to make a sound. He was trembling all over his body, and not just from the chill. Merlin worked as quickly as he reasonably could while he gently wrapped up Arthur’s torso with a stingy single layer of cloth, tying his broken arm to his side, elbow bent and forearm across the stomach. A layer of cloth was between these, unideal in that it was a tender area, but the best he could come up with. 

Even being as thrifty as he could with the cloth, Merlin had had to sacrifice Arthur’s tunic (he couldn’t have put in on with that arm anyway, Merlin reasoned) and both of his own socks to the job. One of the socks bound Arthur’s broken hand flat to a slat from the bucket; he’d smashed it once the water was finished with, another slat acting as a rough splint for the arm. Merlin was at a loss at how to deal with Arthur’s knee, obviously crushed he now realized. In the end he left it alone--Arthur did not want the painful spot touched. Since there was no external wound, he let it be.

Finally Merlin helped ease Arthur onto the side of his good arm, unfolded the abandoned jacket, and draped it carefully over him. Merlin would have given up his own trousers to cover Arthur’s bare legs, but the idea of fitting the bigger man into them was near laughable. The sudden indignant voice of an Arthur past sprung to Merlin’s mind; ‘I am not fat!’ Merlin almost did laugh at that, but sobered immediately. Just four and a half days of near starvation, dehydration and ill treatment, and Arthur actually did look noticeably thinner.

Merlin gathered up as much of the rotting smelly straw as was close to dry, and packed it around Arthur and over his legs in a sort of nest. He’d have liked to have moved him on top of a layer, but Arthur was already out in a sort of fevered half doze at this point. Moving him would have been painful in any case. 

He moved the drinking water near to hand and placed the gruel beside, after eating about a third of it. It was horrible, slimy and disgusting. It was delicious. Then he moved in behind Arthur and laid down beside him, carefully just shy of brushing the wounded back, draping his own jacket over both of them. He’d give his friend as much of his warmth as he could that night. He was surprised when Arthur willingly leaned back into him and relaxed some, still fitfully asleep. Very, very gingerly, Merlin reached a tentative arm out and softly stroked a hand over Arthur’s hair. It was dirty, greasy, and damp with sweat, but thankfully bloodless minus a few contusions at the base of the skull. It was also about the safest place to touch him, so Merlin continued to offer him the small tactile comfort so long as he seemed comfortable with it, gently smoothing his hand over his fever hot head over and over.

Arthur sighed deeply, making a tiny hum in his throat, and fell into a proper sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment! Comments keep an artist going you know ;)


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another bad one my dudes, consider yourself warned ;) Its probably harsher than the last one, but things will start to slowly resolve after this point. Stay strong XD
> 
> In other news, my laptop literally just broke, so unless it revives itself (which oddly has happened) this will put a bit of an obstacle in my future endeavors for a bit. This story is largely finished though, so if I have to upload the whole thing by phone, I suppose that's what I'll do ;)

Something--many somethings, he amended, seemed to be crawling about on Arthur’s legs. Curious, was he laying on grass? It quite itched. He thought maybe the grass was poking through his trouser legs. It was very cold, so he must be on patrol. Yes, that must be it. He was strangely exhausted, stuck just barely on the edge of waking. He kept his eyes closed; he’d be roused at the proper time by his knights, he trusted. There was a faint warmth coming from behind him. Someone sleeping at his back in the cold air. He’d done so many times, nothing strange there. Another prickle of grass poked him on the chest. He moved to swat away the itch with his right hand.

A blinding white spear of pain shot through his arm, and seemed to awaken others of it’s kind over his entire body. He gasped, trying to sit up, but that made it so much worse and he fell back down. He was reeling in agony, what was happening? His breath was coming in ragged gasps; he sounded like a man in a fit of hysterics. Maybe he was. He was laying on a cold wet floor in a sparse nest of rotting straw. He was naked, _why was he naked_? Ragged blue and dirty white cloths wrapped sparsely about his middle, his painful right arm was stuck in these. He could not pull it loose and gave up trying before the effort made him faint. The meager bandages did not begin to be adequate. Blood had soaked through in many places, and failed to cover other bloodied and begrimed areas of skin. He seemed smeared in some areas as if some attempt had been made to wipe him off, but it hadn’t gone terribly well.

A familiar voice from behind began to filter through the haze of fear and pain. He thought it had been insistently calling to him for some time in fact, and he finally wrenched his focus to the sound.

“Arthur, lay still! Arthur it’s Merlin, you’re safe, please you’re hurting yourself!” the voice was saying these repeatedly and finally their meanings became clear. He stopped struggling and sagged back down. Merlin, his dear friend Merlin. When he finally relaxed again most of the memories of the last few days flooded back; he almost reeled physically at the force of the wave. 

He groaned, remembering. He knew where he was, and why. Merlin lied, he was not safe, but he forgave him for it. It was a lie for comforts sake. He wished it were true.

“How long,” Arthur croaked. A light pressure that had probably been a hand left his uppermost shoulder and the warmth behind him disappeared. Merlin was shuffling around his head to his front, accompanied by a clunking and splashing sound. He came in view with a bucket, which was set down near Arthur’s face. 

“It’s barely dawn,” Merlin said. “Here, you should drink. You’re sweating with fever.”

It was true. On top of the sharp pains of his wounds, his head was pounding and his very bones ached. He was shivering continuously from the cold he felt, yet he dripped with sweat. That and he was so thirsty he was about ready to lick the greasy damp floor.

Merlin had put a hand underneath his head and was trying to get him in position to drink more easily. Embarrassed by his helplessness, Arthur twitched his head away.

“I’ll do it,” he insisted. “Sit me up.”

“Arthur, just let me--”

Arthur cut him off. “Listen to your king Merlin.” He made a feeble attempt at hoisting himself up on the arm he laid on, grunting.

“Really, Arthur, I don’t think--”

“Mer--lin” Arthur gritted through his teeth, continuing to struggle upwards.

Merlin groaned in exasperation, rolling his eyes. He muttered something Arthur thought sounded something like “Royal prat”, but he couldn’t be sure.

With difficulty and many muffled curses from both parties, Arthur finally sat up on his own, jacket draped gingerly over his shoulders. Merlin had insisted on making him a little platform of straw to sit on, and had then heaped the rest up around and on top of his legs. His right leg was stretched awkwardly in front of him. The broken knee had been the worst for movement, and still ached abominably. The entire operation left him panting and shivering violently, while sweat dripped off his chin and decidedly no longer blond hair. But he felt a certain defiant pride when he picked up the bucket and drank from it under his own power. What a feat, his mind’s voice snorted silently.

He drank about half of what was there with fervor, finally lowering the bucket and coughing roughly. The stale stuff soothed his cracked throat, fine as the best wine in Camelot’s cellars; he swore he could feel it soaking into his parched body, even easing his raging headache some. He handed it back to Merlin who set it at Arthur’s left side within easy reach.

Arthur shook his head. “You need it too Merlin. I’ve had what I need.”

“I’ve had my share, don’t worry,” Merlin was scooting over with a wooden bowl now. 

“And how much went to tending me then,”Arthur continued the argument, putting the bucket away from himself towards Merlin. “I won’t have you treating me like some invalid. Playing mother and giving away all your rations in hard times.”

“You are an invalid,” Merlin said, there was a hint of teasing in his voice. “Or are you supposed to be an ailing child in this analogy.”

“Shut up Merlin. Drink the water.”

“We’ve got a bit of food,” Merlin ignored him.

Arthur was handed a bowl of sludge. It looked like a sort of congealed porridge, the surface of which had crusted over night, leaving the gelatinous innards to jiggle unpleasantly when the bowl was jostled. Arthur couldn’t figure out if the sudden ache in his stomach was from hunger or disgust, but he knew he should try to get some of it down regardless. He brought it to his mouth, paused, and looked pointedly at the water bucket.

Merlin huffed loudly and pretended to take a sip. Arthur stared. Merlin scoffed again and rolled his eyes, but took and actual gulp, swallowing audibly. Arthur jiggled the bowl of mush until the crust broke and allowed him to sip slowly at the slimy stuff.

Merlin, apparently satisfied that Arthur was as tended to as possible for the moment, took up the knife that had been imbedded in his thigh the last time Arthur had seen it, but not before he’d removed his jacket and gently settled it over the one Arthur already wore. This left Merlin bare chested, but he insisted he’d warm up at his work, which turned out to be hacking at the hard wooden door. Arthur, for his part, sat and shivered quietly, not bothering to argue.

For a time Arthur was lulled into a near sleep state by the constant scrape, scrape, scrape of Merlin’s knife. He tried to live in the present; not allow himself to think too hard of future possibilities excepting the imminent arrival of his knights. They had not arrived back in Camelot three nights before as scheduled. As such, even had they granted the two of them the extra night for possible complications on the road, it was conceivable that a search party could have reached them as early as today--if they pushed and had no problems with tracking. Arthur and Merlin had not been travelling with any haste, and the men who’d captured them had been slower still. Rescue was possible. He had every faith in his knights. He just had to hold out.

A sound of frustration from Merlin’s direction broke Arthur from his reverie. He looked up to see him throw the knife to the stone floor with an un-Merlin like snarl. Merlin looked his way when he made a questioning sound in his throat.

“Magic,” he said, sticking an agitated hand in his hair and messing it thoroughly. Stiff with grease at this point it stuck up at all angles. “They’ve actually sunk a barrier straight into the wood. You can only scrape so far before the blade just skips off.” 

From where he sat, Arthur could see the small area of wood, near where the bolt would be, that Merlin had been working on. Indeed, the wood there had been scraped off to a depth of about half a finger’s width, leaving a weirdly smooth patch underneath where it had refused to be carved away further. The door was flush with the stone. There was no framing to test the blade on.

“It was a good try, Merlin.” 

Merlin flashed him a joyless look in acknowledgement. 

Arthur considered asking for the knife, but admitted to himself it was likely more useful wielded by Merlin at the moment, though the thought rankled. He ordered Merlin to take it, but keep it hidden. He was not to attract trouble to himself. Arthur wasn’t sure he’d listen, but felt better knowing his servant would face trouble armed. For all the good a knife did against magic, he thought cynically. Merlin tucked it carefully in his boot, patting the resulting slight bulge protectively.

Some few hours later Arthur was stirred from a light doze by the sounds of approaching footsteps. Both he and Merlin, who had been sitting leaning on the wall nearby, looked quickly up to the door, then each other and back. The sounds woke in Arthur a fresh wave of apprehension. His breath immediately quickened and he had to fight a growing panic. He couldn’t go back to that room. The thought filled him with terror, and he had to close his eyes to get a hold of himself. But he didn’t have the luxury of time. The steps were coming fast.

He heard Merlin scramble to his knees--he was likely to fall over if he had to move on his chained up feet. Arthur started to heave himself up as well, refusing to meet Skellik on the floor. It was soon clear he could not get up on his own, and Merlin scrambled over to help, not bothering to argue at the wisdom of the idea. Wisdom was not the point at this juncture. 

Together they hastily lifted Arthur’s trembling body upright, though it cost him dearly. He stood shakily on his one good leg, panting heavily, trying to calm his heaving stomach. Pain and fear wracked body and mind, but he refused to give in to it. Arthur tossed Merlin back his jacket and shrugged his own off, throwing it into the corner. He’d be made to lose it anyway. May as well not offer the satisfaction. 

The key turned in the lock, and Arthur’s heart leaped into his mouth. Don’t think of the pain, don’t think of the pain he ordered himself. With a final involuntary glance to Merlin, he looked back to the door, and lifted his chin, face wiped blank.

Skellik walked into the room brandishing a torch. He was unaccompanied this time, entering the cell with his splayed out dominant hand first. It wasn’t terribly overt, but was clearly a precaution against attack. Not likely by himself of course, but by Merlin. The thought was oddly gratifying; clearly he’d taught him something of a lesson the previous day, though the idea of Merlin besting anyone currently was laughable. His servant stayed slightly behind him as ordered however, surprisingly enough, leaning against the wall for balance. When Skellik walked in to see Arthur standing and glaring at him proudly, he was obviously taken aback.

“Well, well,” Skellik said, quickly getting a hold on his expression. He was grinning again. Arthur wanted to wipe it off the bastards face. Preferably with something hard and terribly abrasive. “Here I am, come to see if you’re even awake, and here you are on your own two feet. More or less.” He laughed. Arthur stood a little straighter, ignoring the pain in his knee as he shifted.

“You spend too much time around sniveling cowards Skellik.” Arthur said, voice steady. 

A flash of fury passed behind Skellik’s eyes, but he didn’t stop grinning. Arthur didn’t care for the increase of cruelty in the smile, but was pleased his weak insult had plucked a cord.

“You don’t have much instinct for self-preservation do you?”

“I could say the same to you,” Arthur said. “If you think this will end well for you, you’re gravely mistaken.” He hoped they weren’t just empty words.

“We’ll see, won’t we,” Skellik replied. Arthur lifted his chin imperiously. Yes, they would see.

Skellik called in the guard from just outside the door, a different hulking brute today, quite a towering sort of man. “Time to bring in his highness for his royal appointment.”

“I’ll walk,” Arthur snapped. He was not sure he could but he’d be damned if he’d just meekly allow himself to be dragged out. He attempted to put weight on his bad leg and felt it immediately fail with a fresh surge of pain. He stifled a grunt, feeling powerless.

Skellik laughed and waved his guard forward. Suddenly Merlin hobbled forward, miraculously not tripping and falling flat. 

“Please, I’ll go instead,” Merlin begged.

“Back off Merlin,” Arthur growled through his teeth. The last thing he needed was the bumbling fool putting a target on himself. That thought, he could not bear. Certainly not after knowing what he’d go through.

“You’re of no use to me boy,” Skellik sneered, “A lowly servant.” The guard stepped closer.

“At least let me help him get there, help him walk,” Merlin interrupted again.

Skellik almost seemed to consider it, but waved his lackey on, scoffing at the extinguished hope in Merlin’s eyes. Arthur was grabbed roughly by his free arm, completely at the mercy of the guard as he was heaved over the broad muscled back like a sack of flour. Arthur had to bite hard at his lip, bad leg pulling and grating with every tiny movement.

Skellik exited first, the guard with Arthur following. Arthur could not see back into the cell as he was carried out, pressed up against the guard as he was, but he was sure he’d heard the sound of Merlin hoping forward and falling on the floor with a stupidly endearing whoop before the door was locked. Arthur took the sound and pressed it into his heart for safekeeping. He wished he’d been able to say goodbye. 

He shook his throbbing head, sure he could feel his congested brain wobbling about in there. He had to stop thinking like that. Just the fever talking. Sapping his spirit and making him dangerously sentimental. That was not who he needed to be right now; he needed to be the warrior again.

The chamber was just as they’d left it the day before. Arthur wondered vaguely if leaving his blood all over the table was some sort of scare tactic, or just redundant, considering he’d probably add to the mess today. Instead though, he was unceremoniously deposited on the floor nearby, leaving him in a crumpled heap beneath the hanging chains from yesterday. Already he was heaving for air again from the effort to keep control.

“You know what I want,” Skellik said without preliminary. “Talk now, or break later.”

“You know my answer Skellik.”

“I thought as much.”

Skellik made his way to the winch and lowered the chains level to where Arthur could have reached for them if he cared to. When he didn’t, Skellik snapped his fingers impatiently, and the guard pulled up Arthur’s good arm and locked it in place over his head. Then Merlin’s careful bandages where jerked roughly off, bringing pieces of skin and dried blood with them. 

He made a valiant effort to keep silent, but failed miserably to his shame, soon grunting and making small cries through clamped teeth. When his broken arm was ripped free from the layer of cloth on his side, he couldn’t begin to hold back everything, and simply did what he could. When his injured hand was torn from the board that kept his fingers straight, and his hand grabbed and thrust up to the second manacle, the edges of his vision started to go grey and foggy. Finally he felt himself being slowly and steadily bourne upwards. The pulling was unbearable on his arm.

Suddenly Arthur was gasping and sputtering, awash with confusion, agony, and shockingly cold water. He was now hanging off the floor by several inches, though he didn’t recall having left the floor. Just out of range of a good kick, Skellik stood in front of him with a dripping empty bucket.

“Well that was fast,” the dungeon master drawled. Arthur would have probably flushed had the fever not already taken care of that. Red patches glowed on his cheeks, vibrant compared to his overall paleness. “I’m ready to try these, unless you have something to say to me?” Skellik lifted a metal rod, tip glowing white hot, fading to andry red. Impurities from the fire were sizzling off with thin wisps of white smoke. The mere image of it was already branded in Arthur’s mind.

“Just get on with it,” Arthur tore his gaze from the thing to stare down at its wielder. Sadistic bastard. He tried to put as much of his loathing into his glare as he could, but Skellik was already looking away, unfazed.

With a thoughtful look, more for show than actual indecision, Skellik settled on an appropriate location for his newest onslaught. He aimed the brand with cruel leisure to a spot on Arthur’s side just below the ribs. 

Embrace the pain, embrace the pain, embrace the--AARGH! For a split second he’d felt little more than light pressure, then a single point of excruciating heat blazed in its place, searing every thought clean from his head. 

The whole of his existence was fire. It did not fade when the metal was taken away, he just kept on burning. Arthur was peripherally aware that he had screamed loudly, and had bit through a good deal of his inner lip, but these paltry things didn’t seem important. Whatever walls of self control he had managed to rebuild the night before were crumbling fast. It didn’t help that his fever had been corroding away at it since before it’d even been erected. 

After a few moments the pain lessened marginally, and Skellik’s face coalesced from the spots dancing in front of his eyes, formed from having had them clenched tightly shut.

Skeliik nodded sympathetically. “Painful, isn’t it.” Arthur chose not to answer. “You’ve already had a day of this. Why don’t you answer just one question. Just one and I’ll put this away for a while.” He held up a new blazing iron. Arthur hadn’t even seen him move to get a new one.

Skellik was wisely standing on his bad side, so he could not answer with a swift kick. Arthur spat a gob of blood and spit at him instead. It hit him on his front and clung to his coat in a satisfactorily mucilaginous manner.

“Hm.” Skellik nodded reasonably. 

The new brand touched him almost gently on the skin of his inner arm. Knowing what to expect, and cursing his current fragility, Arthur exerted his waning energy solely on not shying timidly away from the iron in a display of cowardice. The scream ripped from his throat quite unimpeded. He could smell his own flesh burning, a cooked meat smell far too familiar, and his stomach roiled. When Skellik moved a few inches down for another strike there, he cried out again, and this time he vomited. He didn’t even care.

Repeatedly, Skellik sought and found his most tender areas, and unhesitatingly melted the skin from them. Down his sides and under his arms to start. The smooth skin above and around his groin. Behind his knees, the back of his thighs and buttocks. It never seemed to end; it _would never end_. His throat was raw, his screams rawer still. He was certain to die of this. He knew it, he welcomed it. 

The only thing he wanted more than to end the pain, was to keep it from those he cherished. He clung hard to the image of his knights, his beautiful, beloved Guinevere, even Merlin. Yes, of course Merlin, he was too tired to put up those walls. He loved Merlin, just as he loved all his friends, and Merlin the best of them. Friends he normally denied himself the luxury of admitting to having, but whose images he clung to now. His kingdom, his people. He needed to protect them from this. For them, he would willingly suffer anything. Savage must not get what he needed from him.

There was finally a pause. Arthur opened his eyes, noticing for the first time that tears had been forming and falling freely from his eyes. Breathing heavily, he stared down at Skellik warily, waiting for his next move. 

To Arthur’s confusion, Skellik put away the latest brand, and moved to a table near the door. He picked up a dented pewter pitcher from it, and brought it over to him.

“I imagine you’re thirsty,” Skellik asked, not unkindly. Arthur did not answer. If Skellik thought he’d bite and let him take the precious stuff away last moment, he could rot. 

“I’m quite serious, you know.” Skellik brought the vessel close to Arthur’s face as if to prove it, and touched it to his mouth. 

When the water touched him, he knew then it must be poisoned. He clamped his lips tight shut and jerked his face away. 

His reaction caused Skellik to roll his eyes in exasperation. “Stubborn, aren’t you.” He made a show of drinking from the untouched side of the jug, gulping loudly and allowing a distressing amount to fall on the floor. Skellik grinned as Arthur could not help but follow the path of the lost water with his eyes, and offered the pitcher up again.

This time Arthur gave in and gulped at it as if life depended on it, which at this point, it did. His body’s needs put all previous thoughts of welcoming death temporarily out of mind as he gulped greedily. 

“Not too fast,” Skellik scolded him, and took it away, Arthur’s neck stretching out with it, drinking till the last possible moment. Skellik was heading back to the table by the door.

“Wait,” Arthur pleaded to his back. Skellik turned around with a wicked grin. “Please, give some to my servant as well. He’ll die of it, before he takes his proper share”

It hadn’t been what Skellik was expecting, and he looked mildly surprised. Arthur was a little surprised too. He hadn’t intended to say anything at all, and worried slightly at showing a madman that he did indeed care for Merlin. He’d have to watch himself more closely. His guard was seriously compromised. To his relief, Skellik ignored his follied request further and put the water away without comment.

He came back with another poker. Arthur closed his eyes, seeking a strength he was no longer sure he possessed. The water had brought a certain amount of mental clarity back to him along with the physical benefits, but it was more in the way of washing clear any sense of acclimation he may have been building to the pain of the brand. After a sweet break from the torture, he felt that going back would be so much worse. Which was likely rather the point.

He was right.

Skellik came back to stand in front of Arthur with his newest selection. He regarded him impassively, eyes settling on a small rare patch of unmarred skin on his chest. The glowing metal moved to touch him there.

Arthur felt a distinct blossoming of panic in his breast. He did not want it, he could not do it again, but he fought for the control to not to jerk away from another touch. When the heat seared through him this time he roared at Skellik with some sort of combination of pain and animal madness, baring his teeth, eyes blazing, trying to kick out even with his damaged leg.. 

Skellik stepped back out of range and regarded him thoughtfully, nodding slightly to himself.

“Now, I know you don’t want me to use this again,” Skellik said, flourishing the tool, “Just answer one question yes?” 

Skellik was slowly moving the brand to a nice visible spot near his collarbone. Arthur watched it get closer, breathing rapidly. Some small detached part of his mind informed him calmly that the build up of panic as it neared was supposed to distract him from defiance, while the rest of him escalated to a new height of fear. _No_ , another piece of himself hauled itself up and planted itself firmly in front of all others. _I will not yield_.

Unbelievable pain shot through him again, and some part of him started to buckle under the strain. 

He screamed. And then he laughed, high pitched and uncontrolled. Well that seems a little inappropriate, he thought a bit hysterically, and then laughed a little more; not sure where that came from. Perhaps he was starting to lose it. Had Skellik broken his sanity? The dungeon master though, looked mildly frustrated. Arthur liked that. He turned to him and gave him a wide bloody grin. 

“You’re losing you know,” Arthur said. His voice was a bit slurred, spoken through bloodied lips. He was having a bit of trouble keeping his head up and eyes open, and he could feel his body was beginning to fail even in its attempts to shake in illness, but his voice was his own. “You can use every tool in here on me and you’ll never get want you want. Savage will die in obscurity as soon as my people find me. Even if I’m dead.”

“You’re wrong,” Skellik hissed. “I _will_ break you.”

If anything was beginning to crack around here, Skellik’s own mocking persona seemed to be. Arthur felt another mad burst of amusement and giggled wildly again, blood bubbling up from his mouth, spattering and running down his face. 

Arthur’s eyes had drooped shut, but he wearily opened them a crack to watch Skellik storm away to thrust the cooled brand back into the brazier, and head for another station of tools. Well at least he was finished with the burning. Not that he didn’t still feel as though he was on fire. He’d be writhing had he the energy to do so. He personally vowed he’d never see another criminal burnt at the stake in his kingdom again. If he survived.

Soon Skellik was back, bringing with him what looked like a double handful of long wooden splinters. They were sharp, but rough edged, about two finger’s width at the thickest and a couple feet long. Well that didn’t seem too bad, Arthur thought. Then Skellik held them up and said a word Arthur did not understand, causing both the sticks and his eyes to briefly flare with a golden light.

“I’ll stick you like a hedgepig _sire_ ,” Skellik jeered. “I’ve made sure they won’t kill you going in, but know they’ll kill you slowly. You’ll fester and weaken and sicken and rot, and I’ll keep on hurting you until you beg me to put an end to it.” He stuck his face as close to Arthur’s as he could on the taller and suspended man. “Or you could just tell. Me. What. You. Know.”

Arthur closed his eyes again, too tired to keep them open. “I’m ready to die Skellik. Now or later. Your plans die with me.”

One of the splinters buried itself deep into his gut and his eyes flew open. His lungs refused to work, and he gaped, choking for air. He looked down at the stub of wood protruding from his midriff and tried to make sense of how something that small could tear through him with such agony. 

As he watched, another one joined it, and another. Skellik stabbed through his torso, and the spaces between his ribs, and somehow he did not die. Oh how he wished he would, magic be damned. He finally fought for a lungful of air, only to cry it out again when the wood pieces ripped jaggedly through the muscles of arm and leg and out again. 

At last Arthur felt himself fading. Skellik was wrong, he thought with complete calm. He was going to die. He struggled for one final breath of air, and let it out with a shuddering sigh, welcoming the enshrouding dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah me. Poor guy. He really needs to get out of there...


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, after the absolute angst of that last chapter maybe it's time for a spark of hope?
> 
> Read on, dear readers, and feel free to comment! Comments make me want to edit faster ;)

The screams had stopped. Merlin wasn’t sure if that was something to celebrate or not, but he hoped more than anything Arthur was no longer suffering. He had been so injured, how much more could he have taken without falling into unconsciousness? Or worse.

This was day number four of their imprisonment, and it was slowly coming to an end. Merlin blamed himself for not figuring out how to get them out yet and the guilt was eating away at him. So much for watching Arthur’s back, he was completely useless without his magic! Arthur was right--he was an idiot.

No, that was uncharitable. He and the king had long since gotten to the point where there was no real menace to each other’s insults. Arthur valued him. And now he was letting him down.

Merlin picked up the knife blade from the floor, turning it about in his hands. He had broken it off at the handle earlier trying to pry off his shackles. All he’d gained was a broken knife and a few nice gouges out of his only pair of boots. If only he could find a way to use his magic, he’d have them out in minutes. Well… they’d stand a chance anyway. But no matter what he tried, even his incredible abilities could not get past the barrier embedded in the metal. He strongly suspected they were relics of the times before the scourge. Skellik was strong enough, but there was no way he’d made these.

The door on the other hand, now that he’d had a chance to feel it, that spell he knew he could have broken. If he were free.

He sighed, and tucked the blade back into his boot carefully. With the loss of his socks to Arthur’s bindings, it was a somewhat risky procedure. 

It was after a short time of losing himself to another failing session of wracking his brains for an escape plan that Merlin looked up in distraction. Footsteps were coming down the corridor again. At first he thought it would be Skellik with Arthur, and he prepared himself for the worst, but he began to doubt it as the sounds drew nearer. 

There were multiple sets of boots coming, more than two, he was certain. Arthur could not be walking back, surely. Did they need more than one to carry him? The last guard had seemed more than up to it. He stood precariously and waited.

The unseen procession down the hall seemed to make several stops along the way. He’d cease hearing the footfalls, then he’d just barely make out the sound of hushed conversation. Then, shortly after, the steps would come a little closer, and pause again. This happened several times. Finally, it seemed whoever was outside had made it to his door.

There was the sound of a key being stuffed in a lock. It jiggled briefly and was pulled back out. Another series of taps and scrapes sounded like a key that would not even fit was being tried next. That stopped, and was followed by a muffled flurry of curses and scuffling, then a key ring jingled, a key was put in, and the tumblers knocked aside. 

Merlin waited, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He considered taking out his blade, but Arthur had bade him not to use it except in great need. Not that he tended to listen to Arthur of course, but really, without the handle he’d probably just slice his hand open.

The door pushed open, and a head popped in, peering around urgently.

“Merlin!” It cried.

“Gwaine!” 

Gwaine shoved the door the rest of the way open and came in to embrace him, followed closely behind by Percival, Elyon and Leon, all wearing unfamiliar armour and short tabards matching what the castle’s guards had worn. They all crinkled their noses at the smell of the cell, but greeted him warmly, pretending not to notice the state he was in; damp, reeking, smeared with Arthur’s blood in places, and mysteriously shirtless under his jacket. Merlin had never been more relieved to see anyone in his entire life.

“Where’s the king?” asked Leon, coming over to Merlin with the keys as soon as Gwaine had finished thumping him on the back, nearly tipping him over in his enthusiasm. Leon knelt and worked at finding the correct key for his ankles.

Merlin paled but answered, “Skellik, the dungeon master has him. He’s being tortured. I haven’t heard him in a while--we have to get him out as soon as possible!”

“Tortured…” Elyan repeated quietly with poorly concealed horror. 

Percival, standing beside him kicked away a pile of straw and stared down at the grisly rust colored stain Arthur had left underneath. “Haven’t heard him?” he muttered, honing in on that implication.

Leon shook his head, giving up on the keys as a bad job. “None of these fit,” he said, standing up. We’ll have to find a way to break them loose elsewhere.” He looked at Merlin urgently, grabbing either of his shoulders for emphasis. “Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

“It’s just further down the corridor I think. There’s a torture chamber there. Leon--” Merlin interrupted the knight’s hasty departure--“Skellik, he’s a sorcerer.”

Leon set his mouth in a grim line and nodded. “Elyan, come with me. We’ve got to find the king.” He turned to Percival and then to Gwaine, “you two follow us with Merlin. There’s got to be something we can use on those chains in there. Or better yet,” he drew his sword, “a sorcerer with a set of keys.” 

Not entirely sure an axe or even a forge could break the magicked shackles, he was even less sure that running into Skellik was the better of the two options. Not with his magic out of commission. Still, he needed to get to Arthur’s side, now.

Leon and Elyon left at once. Percival and Gwaine each threw one of Merlin’s arms around their shoulders and hoisted him up, more or less dragging him along with them, Percival stooping to accommodate their unmatched heights. They stopped only to shut the door quietly to maintain the look of normalcy, then hastened to keep up with the lead two.

“Here Mate, you look terrible” Gwaine took a half full waterskin from his belt and handed it to Merlin awkwardly, switching to hoist him up by the waist to let him drink. Merlin guzzled down several gulps, causing Gwaine to snatch it back, scolding. “Slowly, or you’ll throw up! Trust me, I’ve been there.” He handed it back, and Merlin made himself sip at a slightly more reasonable pace.

The hall was not long, and soon the three of them caught up to Leon and Elyan, who had just made it to the door at the end of the dark corridor. 

“I don’t hear anyone inside,” Leon said softly, and gently pushed open the unlatched door.

When the chamber and its contents were revealed, it was fortunate that Skellik was absent, as the element of surprise would have immediately been lost. 

“Arthur!” Merlin cried. On either side of him Gwaine made a sound of anguish, and Percival physically recoiled at the sight of their king. Leon was already rushing to his side with Elyan.

Hanging from long chains near the center of the room, facing the door, was Arthur. His body was limp, head hanging, eyes closed. Blood dripped from his mouth, and from all over his body, leaving a wide pool of red beneath him. Not an inch of his skin was its original color; the bruises had worsened, spreading to become red-blue. Of yesterday’s injuries, three of the five patches of flayed skin had ripped back open almost entirely, the other two partially, and were leaking blood and other liquid. Between and around all of these on every part of him were horrible burns. They were vivid red and oozing where the skin was not crisped completely black. To bear them all must have been the height of agony. On top of all this, he was skewered with a dozen or so sharp wooden splinters, the wounds mortal. Arthur, the Once and Future King, was dead.

Merlin was sobbing unashamedly. He had failed. Albion was doomed. His destiny was over, wasted on his useless self. He looked at the ravaged body of his king, his friend, and wished it could have been him. Would have given anything to make it so. Gwaine and Elyon had tears streaming openly down their faces. Percival seemed to shrink in size, looking stunned. Leon was pale as alabaster, slowly bringing a shaking hand to caress the face of his fallen king. 

Leon gasped, hand jerking away, only to shoot back out and touch gently under Arthur’s nose with the back of his shaking hand. “He’s… he’s alive?” A statement, and a question. He whipped around to look at Merlin, physician’s assistant, look of utter consternation on his face. “He’s breathing.”

Heart in mouth, and in a state of panicked excitement, Merlin gestured wildly at his mobility aids, “quick, help me get to him.”

Elyan was already sprinting to the winch and lowering Arthur’s body to the floor. Leon quickly tried all the keys on his ring, failing to find a match for Arthur’s shackles as well, and went about the room to find alternative means of removing them. Merlin threw himself to the floor beside Arthur as soon as he was in reach.

“Water, bandages,” Merlin ordered, “I’ll do what I can until we can get him out of here.”

Elyan and Gwaine ran in search of these, while Percival barred the main entrance, then moved to station himself at a door in the corner. As Merlin had not heard anyone but them in the hall outside the cell until the knight’s arrival, that was likely where Skellik had disappeared to. There was no telling when he’d be back to finish his work. 

Merlin did not see how anyone could possible get anything out of Arthur now. He didn’t understand how he was even alive. Obviously Skellik did practice sorcery in his questionings, if not to damage, than to prolong life. Still, the spears of wood had been driven deep into Arthur’s guts, his lungs. It seemed impossible to survive. It became clearer when he touched the first splinter. Magic. He could not access his own powers, but he could definitely feel an enchantment on these. It was not buried in the wood as the door’s had been, but soaked into the whole of the wood. Merlin was sure the damage to Arthur’s organs will have been stopped by the spell somehow; it was a sophisticated bit of magic. Even as the wood agitated the flesh it pierced, causing infection and sickness, and incredible pain, for some time, Arthur would live to know about it. Merlin knew also that if he pulled one out, that protection would halt, and even where that wouldn’t be immediately disastrous, it would leave smaller splinters inside, ready to continue the damage. Merlin did not know what to do. He needed his magic.

Elyan returned presently with a pitcher half full of water that he’d found near the door, and went off again to search further. Gwaine dropped off a small pile of linen hand towels and such, probably kept there to wipe off Skellik’s guilty, bloodied hands, Merlin thought. The knight had thoughtfully placed these on a pilfered tray to keep them up off the filthy ground. He said he’d take the keys from Leon and make a quick foray down the hall, stating they’d seen a store room on the way down to the rescue.

Leon came back with Elyon, bearing an assortment of tools to try on Arthur and Merlin’s chains. The blacksmith’s son got immediately to work on the king’s, and soon had the chains broken off. The manacles resisted his efforts, and stayed locked to his wrists, but at least now he was movable. Merlin suspected the metal cuffs had the same magic his did, and would likely require magic or the correct key to open. To Merlin’s relief, the chains keeping his ankle cuffs together also came off, so while his magic was still barred from him, at least he could walk on his own.

Merlin was hesitant to start too much on Arthur’s wounds while they were still in such a prone location, but he wanted to get him stabilized to move. As there was very limited water available at the moment, he settled on wiping clean the flayed areas that had reopened, and wrapping them up again. Most of his other wounds were at least closed. He also tenderly wiped Arthur’s face clean of crusted blood, sweat, and dried tears. The rest he would try to get him to drink, as soon as he’d dealt with the wood skewering him, not wanting him to awaken before doing so.

Since he was convinced that the magic soaked into the wood was what was keeping Arthur from suffering the true damage the spikes should be causing, Merlin did not want to remove them without his magic at hand, at least not the ones embedded in his torso. Even then, he could not lie to himself, he was at a loss as to how he would deal with them. Healing magic was a complexity of its own, and not a subject Merlin had naturally excelled at.  

Yet the spikes would impede their ability to move him. In the end, Merlin decided he’d have to cut away some of the end parts that stuck out, and leave the rest buried inside for later dealings. Of the several splinters skewering Arthur’s limbs, Merlin would pull out the simpler ones, and deal with the other’s the same way as the body wounds.

Leon came back with a pair of shears and a bone saw at Merlin’s request. Nobody wanted to think about the old blood stains coloring the hard to clean places on the tools. He got to work cutting away some of the excess wood, making sure to leave just enough to grab later.

When Merlin had to explain his reasoning behind his actions, he was relieved that the other knights took it for granted that as the court physician’s assistant, he simply knew what he was doing, leaving him free of the need to explain his knowledge of magic. The men quickly and willingly did as he bid, trusting his authority in that particular matter. Merlin found it difficult to have the same trust in himself, but he was the best Arthur had at the moment. They needed to get him up and back to Camelot as soon as humanly--and perhaps magically--possible.

Three skewers had gone straight through the muscle of Arthur’s arms. Two, Merlin gingerly pulled out and bandaged with the waning supply of cloths. The other he trimmed back. He was afraid the location would lead to a great deal of bleeding. He’d seen other wounds there with Gaius, and knew it was dangerous.

There were also six divided between each leg. Three were pulled, three trimmed. In this case, he was hesitant about only one of the latter, but he hadn’t enough bandages left to wrap the last three. They would have to wait.

It was the extent of what Merlin could do for him in this place and time. They’d been in the cell for a worrying length of time, even though it had in fact only been a few minutes. There was no telling when Skellik would return. He called over Percival, as the strongest of the knights, to come help him sit Arthur up to see if he would drink, and then to lift and carry him out. Elyan replaced him at the door. Leon was watching at the main entrance. There was still no sign of Gwaine’s return.

Merlin poured a thin stream of water over Arthur’s lips, and he reflexively sucked at it feebly, but most ran down his chin. Merlin poured the rest into Gwaine’s near emptied waterskin which he still retained. They’d try again later. It was time to go.

Percival bundled Arthur up in his arms and stood. The king gave no indication of protest. Leon waved Elyon over and the group headed for the main doors. “We’ll find Gwaine on the way out,” he said.

Merlin stopped at the doorway. “I’ll meet you outside, get the king out,” he said. They had briefed him on their route in, and how they’d taken out the few guards and switched to the local uniforms. He hoped getting out would be so easy. “There’s something I have to do.”

The three knights turned round to look at him in confusion. Gwaine chose this moment also to come jogging up, breathing lightly and clutching a cloth sack.

“Not a chance mate,” Gwaine said. “You’re not going anywhere alone.”

Leon agreed, shaking his blond curls. “We’re all getting out of here now Merlin. That means you too.”

Merlin backed up a step. He had to find Skellik and get the keys to the magicked shackles, or he’d never be able to help Arthur. Without his magic, he wasn’t sure what he would do against the other sorcerer, but he’d be equally useless to Arthur without it, so he had to try. “You have to trust me. I have to go. Meet me in the woods outside and I’ll find you. If I’m not back in less than two hours, head for home. I’ll catch up.” Four hardened gazes peered at him sceptically. “Please. Trust me.”

Whether or not they would have done so, Merlin would never know, for at that moment a horrendous clanging sounded from somewhere high above ground. The ill boding sound of a warning bell.

“They found the guards!” Percival guessed, voice grim.

“Go!” Merlin bodily shoved them out the door. They took off, all except Percival had their swords drawn, the three with their hands free to do so moving to the front to protect the king. Before they could turn and demand he come along, Merlin slammed shut the door and heaved the heavy bar into place. They wouldn’t waste time trying to get through. The priority would be to the king. 

He bolted across the room, ignoring several muffled shouts from behind the heavy door. He picked up a long blade on his way to the far corner, and tossed aside the broken one in his boot--it was the best he could do at the moment. 

Then Merlin tore up the tower steps two at a time. He wanted to reach the top before Skellik came down, for surely he’d be coming back now to check on his captives. With only a long knife to fight with, having Skellik towering over him on the higher steps would be an even bigger disadvantage than he'd already be dealing with. Merlin just hoped he’d take the same route here as he’d previously left.

A few stories up there was a narrow opening to the outside, an archer’s station. Through this Merlin saw a sight that chilled him more to the bone than the cold autumn air did. Squads of fighting men were pouring over the darkening grounds, coming out from the castle in droves and flooding out of an out building that was probably a barracks. If the knights ran into any of these on their way out, they’d have a near impossible chance of getting out alive.

Without his own powers, the only hope he had was to call for aid. But would it work? He reached within himself for the connection he shared with his kin, and roared his summons to the sky. “ _O drakon, e mala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes! Erkheo! Anale tendai gard amasen fulakson_!”

The magic that was tapped into to reach Kilgharrah was not of the same stuff that had been born to him, and Merlin felt it push violently past the spell that dammed in his natural powers as easily as a dragon would break through a wooden palisade. And he felt something crack. 

“Ha!” Merlin whooped as he felt it. The enchantment had been weakened! He held up his palm, and muttered, “ _Forbearnan_ ” A spark came to life and sputtered out an inch from his hand. Hope swelled in his breast, and he closed his eyes in concentration and tried again, putting the full force of his power behind it. “ _Forbearnan_!” 

Fire blazed from his palm with a thrilling intensity. Merlin laughed out loud. He had his powers back! The spell from the shackles, cracked from his dragon call, blew apart like lightning striking a window. He could feel jagged biting edges catching at his spell like bits of glass stuck in the proverbial window frame, but Merlin had confidence in the strength of his magic; it would be no barrier to him any longer. He made his way up the stairs again with renewed fervor, face fixed in fierce determination. He had a sorcerer to catch.

The tower steps went on a short ways further up, stopping at a dead end. Merlin laid a hand on what appeared to be a solid stone wall, and grinned. It was not. He gave it a sharp shove with his powers, and felt the magical lock crumple. No password required, Merlin thought with satisfaction. He was ready to shatter every spell of Skellik’s he came across on his path to the dungeon master, and then, thinking darkly back to Arthur’s broken body, maybe a few bones as well.

‘ _I am here young warlock, what do you need of me_?’ Kilghara’s voice sounded in his mind. 

‘ _The king_!’ Merlin wasted no time for pleasantries. ‘ _He has been captured and gravely injured. Four men are taking him out of the castle, but their presence has been discovered. They are greatly outnumbered. Please, old friend, clear the way for them_!' 

‘ _As you say, Emrys_ ,’ and the dragon’s presence was gone. Merlin breathed a sigh of relief. Surely, they’d be safe. Arthur, would be safe. For now. 

The door had lead to one end of a stone hall. Merlin looked behind himself, and saw only stone, but still, he could feel the illusion. No longer locked, anyone who chanced to touch the space would find that they went right through the image of stone. Merlin moved on. 

The hall was only slightly better kept than the dungeons had been. The rock was old and crumbled in spots, the torch brackets were empty, and the walls bare, but it was dry at least. Several doorways led off, and another hallway intersected it halfway, but Merlin could feel where he was going now. Several days of being near magically blind seemed to have leant his sense of it an edge, now that he could see past the barriers of his body with it. He honed in on the signature of Skellik’s magic like a hound to the scent, and Skellik was his prey. 

He ran down the hall, turned the corner, went down another short set of stairs, and through several unused chambers. Exiting the last of these through a locked door he easily blasted through, he found himself in a better kept area of the castle. Wary now of running into soldiers, he continued on his path to Skellik. 

In a well lit and tapestried corridor he ran into a group of three men. They were flung into the wall. Further, he found another pair, and they met the same fate. He went up a wide and twisting flight of stairs and strode into a broad hall. 

One side was a stone wall, the other was a balcony, edged with columns of granite stone with ornate iron railings between them. It looked out over a grand chamber--or what would have been one at one time. Three stories below was a room; at its farthest end was a once beautiful, wide alcove of broken stained glass windows. Tapestries and flags that would have reached level with Merlin’s current elevation hung down either side, now in tatters. Debris littered the floor. A raised dais was erected on the far side of the room in the light from the broken windows, on top of which sat a weirdly well kept chair. Ornate and well polished, it could have been a throne. Now it sat empty, overlooking a realm of cobweb and dust. 

Merlin ripped his eyes off the spectacle of the room, for striding towards him from the far end of the hall, was Skellik.

The dungeon master had just come through the wide, open wooden doorway there, and stopped in his tracks when he saw him. “You?!” he bellowed, “How?”

Merlin stopped too. He was still holding the blade from the torture chamber, but he had no desire to use that particular weapon. 

“Me.” He agreed, voice gone dangerously soft. He took a deep breath and pooled a raging storm of magic at his center, ready to unleash at last, and opened his mouth to utter a spell.

* * * * * * *

Arthur only slowly became aware that he had regained a tenuous hold on consciousness. He seemed to be somehow moving from one place to another in a halting fashion, though he knew this only from the movement of air on his damp face, as his eyes were tightly closed. There would be a sudden dash of speed, and he’d be bumping along, and suddenly he’d stop. Then there’d be the familiar sound of steel clashing steel, accompanied by the odd cry of a man cut down. Often during these times he’d feel himself being whirled away from the noise, and his strangely solid surroundings would crush down harder around him. 

He was too weak to protest at this. Largely he was grateful for the fact that, while he felt certain his body was in incredible pain, his consciousness seemed to be floating, almost comfortably, somewhere above it all. Only when he felt that odd tightening of his surroundings did the pain try to tug at him, and he disliked that. 

When it happened for the third time, Arthur’s eyes cracked open. It was dark, and he thought he glimpsed the starry sky. There were the sounds of desperate fighting around him, and he came to the realization that the crushing sensation was in fact the body of another individual shielding him from the violence, and that he was being carried through the night by that person.

He fought to open his eyes further, to look up at the face of his protector, when suddenly the sounds of screaming intensified tenfold, and the only thing he could see was a blaze of fiery yellow-orange light. He clenched his eyes shut against it. It hurt his head and filled him with fear, though why he should feel so adverse to the sight of fire and the feeling of heat, he did not know. Perhaps it was a contagious fear, for the body holding him also let out a cry of great astonishment, and Arthur felt himself whisked away again.

This time there were no pauses for a time. He felt that there were other people with himself and his rescuer, for he would hear a voice from time to time, and the body he was held against would sometimes anwer. Arthur’s ear was pressed against the body’s chest he thought, for he could hear the ragged breathing. He found himself feeling some concern for the man--surely it was a man, for he’d heard the deep voice--and tried to speak, to tell him he should run on, leave him, for there was a great danger behind them it seemed, though Arthur could not muster a healthy sense of fear of it for himself.

Arthur opened his mouth; some sound must have come out, for the voice above him responded, “Hush, sire, I’ve got you. We’re almost out.”

Arthur tried to tell him that that was not what he meant, but the sounds wouldn’t form. He felt as weak as a newborn pup; his eyes even refused to open again. Some time later, after the sounds of chaos had faded into the distance, He felt himself moved. From somewhere a cloth was wrapped about his body, the arms holding him shifting to accommodate it. The movement and the cloth catching on his hurts tugged his floating mind closer to the pain again, and he made a small sound of protest. 

“Sleep, highness, sleep. You’ll be safe soon. We have you, just sleep.” said another voice. And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the by, is it generally odd to reply to comments on this platform? I'm just noticing a general trend, and grow curious, as waaaay back in the day when I was on devArt, it was usually normal to reply. Makes me wonder is all!
> 
> Also really feeling the lack of a computer rn... I have another idea for a longer story, but there's no way I'm doing it on my phone. Just typing up the notes here and my hands are tired XD


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, this chapter kicked me in the butt for some reason, and I had a hell of a time editing it. I'll try to be quicker for the next one, but no guarantees so close to Christmas ;)
> 
> In other news, since I can't easily write at the moment without a laptop, I drew instead a thing from my next story. That I will write, dammit. Someday. I will post it in a bit if anyone wants to take a look at it ;)

Merlin’s mouth was opened in a tooth baring snarl, his hand raising to deliver the deadly force of the storm of magic within him, when Skellik, oblivious to being a split second from death, sneered and spoke.

“I’ll take you straight to Savage, boy, see what he wants done with the likes of you.”

Sir Savage, the head of this whole operation. Merlin put his hand down. Skellik didn’t realize Merlin was a sorcerer. It was entirely possible that he was also unaware of why the bells were being tolled. Skellik thought he had caught the wayward escapee, and intended to take him straight to his leader. Merlin, he decided, would let him.

Merlin raised his blade instead, the image of a defiant and magic-less servant. “What have you done with my king?” He snarled, “where have you taken him?” He hoped it was plausible that he could have gotten here without having run into Arthur on the way. Skellik wouldn’t know he’d have been able to make it through his magicked door.

“You fool,” Skellik scorned him, apparently believing his lie. “He was just down the hall from you, and you failed to find him? He was right, you are useless.” He shot his hand forward and clenched his fist, shouting his spell as his eyes glowed gold. Merlin felt his knees buckle and all the air leave his lungs at once as a feeling like invisible ropes wrapped around his body. He lost balance and fell to the ground, the knife leaving his grip and falling with a clang before skidding away and hitting the far wall. Merlin fought against the urge to fight back. Not yet.

Skellik wasn’t done with him. Merlin was laying on the cold floor, gasping like a fish as his breath returned, when the dungeon master approached him. “I don’t find you humble enough to meet _my_ king,” he taunted, grinning his signature sadistic grin. “Let me help you with that. _Túce hwón_.”

Searing pain shot through Merlin’s body, seeming to shoot down every one of his bones, starting with his sternum and radiating outwards. He curled up in a ball, unable to move his arms from his sides, or his legs from each other. Probably he screamed. When it stopped, he lay panting. He glared up at Skellik, biting back the urge to say something scathing. If the sadist was satisfied he was put in his place, he’d take him to Savage. Then he could get out of here and get back to Arthur.

“ _Hierste þæt íecen sóna_.” Skellik’s eyes glowed again, and this time Merlin definitely screamed. He felt as if his whole body, inside and out was ablaze. He writhed, desperate to move away from the feeling, but being bound by invisible ropes as he was, he could not get away. He dug his fingernails into his palms until he felt blood seeping stickily between his fingers, fighting not so much the pain, as the urge to make it stop. With the barest effort, he could be free of Skellik’s grasp and be done with it, but he wanted to deal with Savage as quickly as possible. Best to take care of both at the same time.

Be afraid, be cowed, he told himself, and Skellik would be done with him.

The pain stopped again, and Merlin kept his head down. Skellik sniggered, and Merlin saw his boots approach. He received a swift kick in the gut for his trouble, and Merlin began to think perhaps it would be worth it to simply take the man out and spend the time tracking Savage down. But Arthur needed him sooner than later. 

His patience and perseverance paid off sooner than he’d hoped. Skellik landed one more blow to the ribs, causing Merlin to yelp sharply, when the sound brought someone to the far end of the hall.

“What on earth are you doing, Skellik?” A commanding voice spoke. The last word was spat out, as if the speaker did not care over much for the sorcerer, or perhaps simply his taste in entertainment. Merlin couldn’t say he blamed them.

Skellik immediately swung around, and his voice became one of sniveling servitude. “My lord,” he said, practically dripping oil, “This is the escaped prisoner. The servant to the undeserving king. I was just bringing him to you for justice,”

“No doubt,” Sir Antony Savage sniffed. He stood just in the doorway that Skellik had entered. A tall, imposingly regal looking man in late middle age, with rich clothes that contrasted with the ramshackle look of his realm. Beside and behind him stood a handsome, though ethereal looking woman of close age to him, standing hunched and hugging her middle timidly, as if to draw the least attention to herself. Her clothes too, were decorative and fine, but not so much as Savage’s.

Having taken as much stock of the situation as he felt he needed, Merlin sent out angry rivulets of power down his every nerve to the surface of his skin, soundlessly disintegrating the binding spell that held him, and stood behind the oblivious dungeon master, glaring daggers. When Savage’s gaze caught the movement behind his subordinate, his eyes narrowed questioningly. Skellik, seeing the change in his lord’s expression, turned to glare at his floored captive, and gaped when he saw him instead standing before him.

“What--” 

“You lose, Skellik,” Merlin shot out a hand and hit Skellik with a blast that sent him flying past Savage to strike a column of the balcony behind.

Savage gave a roar of outrage, but turned heel and ran to the exit he’d just entered, the woman barely having time to flee behind him, as he spared her no attention. 

I don’t think so, Merlin thought. “ _Behæpse fæst_!” The doors slammed shut as the noble reached them, and Savage struck it with his fists in futile rage and panic. He then ran to the nearest column and hid behind it, his woman trailing behind. Arthur had been right--he was a coward. Merlin would deal with them later.

Skellik was getting up from the floor. He had blood dripping down his face from a cut on his scalp, and his face was contorted with rage. “ _Ástryce_!” he screeched, flinging a violent spell to the younger sorcerer.

Merlin batted it aside easily and retaliated, using his innate skills in telekinesis to wrench Skellik off his feet and bring him forward without a word. 

It was Skellik's turn for screaming; he panicked and flailed as he flew through the air to stop hovering in front of Merlin. Skellik frantically tried to launch an offence, but Merlin sent out his powers in waves to crush his every attempt. Skellik’s face was one of the purest rage and terror. It was plain to both of them that Skellik was outmatched. With an inherently casual twitch of a finger, Merlin brought Skellik’s face near his own. He would look Arthur’s tormentor in the eye before he died by his hand.

“But, how?” Skellik whined, face contorted in fear and confusion.

“I am Emrys,” Merlin said, voice stone cold, and eyes burning like the blue of the hottest flame. Skellik’s eyes widened in recognition. “Arthur is out. He is safe. He will return to his throne. You lose, and now you’ll pay for it.” 

Merlin stuffed a hand in Skellik’s coak pocket, miraculously finding the keys in the first, and without another word, flung him off the balcony with an easy sweep of the hand. Skellik’s screams were cut off abruptly with a sickening, satisfying crunch from three stories below.

Merlin tucked the keys into his jacket, and turned to face Savage. He would not live another day, free to plot against the King of Camelot. The noble was no longer cowering in the corner, but had been trying to sneak past Merlin when his attention had been elsewhere, the unnamed woman trailing behind looking vague and confused. Now, seeing himself caught by one who could obviously overpower him, Savage put on a startling show of bravery, compared to the cowardice he’d so far shown. 

Savage stood to his full and considerable height, and swept towards Merlin with the haughty arrogance of one who truly believed he deserved a throne. His handsome face contorted in barely suppressed rage, as he strode over to stand before Merlin.

Merlin had a cautionary hand held before him, but felt curious as to what the man would say to him. Savage stopped just shy of the hand he knew could destroy him, and stood towering over the smaller man.

“You,” Savage’s voice shook with fury, “you are a sorcerer, blessed to have learnt the same skills as my son, yet you serve that sniveling, unworthy, son of a _cur_ , that sits the throne of Camelot. How can you betray your people that way?” His chest heaved with emotion.

“You’ve gravely misjudged King Arthur,” Merlin stated simply. “I know him. He's a good man, and he's not his father. He _will_ bring about a great and just Camelot.”

“He’s no different than Uther!” Savage cried, spittle flying from his mouth to bead on his neat salt-and-pepper beard, “That man killed my son! He killed his mother! He tried to kill me, though he failed and did not know it. Magic saved me, and magic should be brought back to the kingdom. All the kingdoms. Those like my son should not have to fear for their lives living under the unjust rule of a weak king, to afraid to use magic as it should be used! Even Skellik, contemptible bloodthirsty man, was worth more than Camelot’s rulers!”

“Skellik was under your authority! Some king you’d be if you can’t even take responsibility for your lackey. I agree that Uther did many things I consider unjust. And I’m sorry you lost your son, but it doesn’t excuse what you’ve done to the current king. You don’t know him. He’s just, and honest, and has already made peace with the druids, unlike his father. Did Skellik tell you that even after he was kidnapped, he was still willing to talk peace to you? Did you Listen? You’re a traitor and a villain.”

“He didn’t mention it,” Savage admitted, “but it does not matter. Your _king_ deserved what he got. Tell me, does Arthur know about your little gift? Hmm?” 

Merlin inhaled sharply, but did not answer right away. That was, of course, _the_ question. No, he had not told Arthur about his gifts, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Someday. It just had never been the proper time. He knew, without question, that Arthur was a good and honorable man; the Once and Future King. Completely worthy of his throne. Magic hadn’t returned to Camelot, but it would. Someday, Arthur would accept him. He had every faith of it.

With conviction, he looked back up to Savage’s face from where his gaze had briefly wandered, and was oddly saved from forming an answer. A curious, startling expression was fixed on the would-be king’s face; eyes wide, mouth working silently, he looked utterly astonished. Surprised himself, Merlin looked for the source of this sudden perplexity, and was baffled when Savage’s body suddenly jerked, and grew a blade straight out from its belly. 

Merlin quickly stepped aside in hasty confusion, watching as the noble’s body suddenly pitched forward and was violently shoved over the side of the railing. It landed with the second sickening crunch of the evening. Merlin looked up at the lady before him with astonishment.

She had been looking down over the edge of the balcony, one blood spattered hand held tightly in the other, though they did not shake. She looked back up to Merlin when it seemed she was satisfied Savage was not about to rise back up to his feet. The two men in the makeshift throne room were dead.

“I’m Meriam,” she introduced herself, “Savage’s late wife.” 

She no longer looked timid and insubstantial, but stood to her full height. Bruises showed underneath her eyes, but the eyes themselves were bright and quick as a bird’s. She looked like someone who’d just woken up from an unrestful sleep, yet bristled with sudden life.

“Merlin,” the young sorcerer answered shortly, not entirely sure where to place this women in this story. Meriam appeared to see the question in his eyes, and spoke further.

“I am not, obviously, the mother of Savage’s son,” she said bitterly. “The boy was a young captain in his army, Savage’s contribution to the soldiers of Uther’s Camelot. I saw how he doted on the young man, but it wasn’t until he was tried for sorcery and sentenced to burn, that Savage went mad with grief and declared him his illegitimate son, and the mother, his mistress. We had never been close--an arranged marriage of course. And perhaps I can not blame him, for it became clear after the first few years that I could not bear him any children.” Her face fell a bit at this, but she did not appear to lose any of her anger at Savage, not ceasing to blame him despite that statement. Merlin privately agreed with the sentiment. 

“But I did not know he had taken a mistress. When I found out, I told him I’d leave, that I’d go back to my father’s house, but Savage was as his name predicted. He flew off in a rage. He’d just failed to save his bastard and lover from Uther’s flames, and he forbade me to leave, for I was his, he said, and at the very least he still enjoyed me in bed for all my uselessness as a bearer of heirs.” she gave an unladylike snort.

“He was injured and bedridden for some time then, from his attempted rescue, and Skellik was always present, taking care of him with his magics. He heard this, and somehow he enchanted me. Skellik was always devoted to Antony. I think he thought if he managed to help him to the throne he’d be granted power. His one true love, other than inflicting pain on others.” She huffed in joyless amusement. “The spell broke the moment he hit the floor. I remember every moment of the last two and a half decades, but this is the first time since that day that my will has been my own.”She sighed, face etched with grief.

Merlin was nearly at a loss for words. A slave for over twenty years? “I’m so sorry that that happened to you.” he hesitated, unsure, “perhaps… perhaps you should come back with me to Camelot. Arthur is a just king, he would hold no blame over you for this. You’d be well treated.”

Meriam smiled sadly and shook her head. “Thank you Merlin,” but I will stay to take care of a few things, and leave at first light for my family’s holdings. I have not spoken to my family since falling under Skellik’s spell, and I know not if my parents even still live, but that place was home once. There I can heal.”

“Perhaps someone should accompany you?” Merlin was not sure who he could spare, or indeed, who would leave the king as he was, but his sense of chivalry bade him make the offer nonetheless.

“You’re kind,” Meriam said, “but that won’t be necessary. I have a few servants who stayed loyal to me, they came from my father's house. I will be safe with them. I’m sorry for your trials, you and the king’s.” She gave him a courtly bow, perhaps to acknowledge Merlin’s freeing of her, turned, and glided away with a sad grace.

Merlin watcher her leave for the barest of moments, then turned heel and ran, heading back to Arthur.

He sped back through the castle, going back the way he came. He knew from the knights how to get to the back entrance they’d come from, and it was quicker to run the familiar route than to search out another.

He ran straight through the illusion at the top of Skellik’s tower, down the winding steps, through the torture chamber, which he sincerely hoped never to see again, past their old cell, and out the route they had described to him. He paused once to peek into a storage room, only to find it already well looted; the work of Gwaine he presumed. He made it to the door to the grounds and witnessed the destruction wrought by Kilgharrah.

Their were bodies strewn upon the scorched earth. Some seem to have been felled by sword, but many more bore the mark of intense flames. The ground was blackened in many areas, showing the path of the dragon’s flight, herding the bulk of the men away from the knights and the king. It was a grisly sight, but Merlin sent a silent thanks to his kindred spirit, Kilgharrah having moved somewhere out of range of their telepathic abilities.

Merlin met no one on the way through the grounds, and made it easily to the back door. It was left open, so he pushed through and headed down the path at a jog. The forest grew right up to the outer wall in the back, having been allowed to overgrow in the past decades. Savage had relied on secrecy for protection rather than security. Clearly he hadn’t expected anyone to sneak close under their cover, or use the trees themselves to breach his walls.

Only a few yards down the darkened trail Merlin was ambushed by a strong arm coming from behind a tree. It grabbed him by the shoulder; he started and rose a hand to defend himself by magic, but just in time a voice he recognized hissed at him, and was joined by a familiar face materializing out of the gloom.

“Where. Have. You. _Been?!_ ” Gwaine snarled at him, grabbing his other shoulder and looking him up and down for injuries.

“I told you, there was something I had to do,” he said impatiently. “Quick, take me to Arthur.”

Gwaine huffed, and spun them both around to head down the path, keeping a hand on Merlin’s shoulder as if to keep him from running off again. With his other hand, he dug into his jacket and brought out a roll stuffed with cheese, and handed it to him. It was nice to have a friend who cared for him, Merlin thought, but he wished Gwaine would lighten his vice-like grip a little. He nibbled on the bread and cheese, forcing himself to chew thoroughly and eat slowly. The stuff was dry and rich; difficult to eat after an extended period of hunger.

“We’ve made camp a short distance from here. There’s a small cave. Arthur’s…” he trailed off. Clearly Arthur was not doing well. Merlin’s heart quickened, but he felt sure Gwaine would have told him if Arthur had died. Merlin didn’t think he was likely to just yet. If he could get that fever under control, and deal with those spikes… his thoughts trailed off too. 

Gwaine cleared his throat roughly. “You have a few minutes. What were you doing back there?”

Merlin sighed, unsure just how much was safe to say. He pulled out the small ring of keys he had taken from Skellik. He knew they were the right ones; they hummed gently with a magic counter to the magic-blocking spell he had broken with help from his dragon call. The spell on the keys would cancel out the spell on Arthur’s wrists, and what was left on his own ankle cuffs. “I needed this,” he held it up to show his friend, and tucked them away again. “Skellik and his master won’t be playing traitor again.” 

He didn’t look up to meet Gwaine’s eye, but felt his gaze bore into him. The knight made a low sound in his throat, but said nothing. There was a jutting of rock barely visible as a massive shadow in the trees to their right, and Gwaine lead him off the path towards it.

Leon was standing watch, and nodded to Gwaine as they came into camp. He looked as if he wanted to say something to Merlin regarding his disappearing act of earlier, but decided against it, lips tightening. Arthur needed the assistant physician, now. 

Camp was well set up, and reasonably hidden in the shelter of the rocky cliff. A fire was established, though no one currently sat near it. Barely illuminated at the edge of the clearing, Merlin spied Percival finishing up with the horses for night. It was clear that despite Merlin’s urging, they had had no intentions of going straight on to Camelot. It didn’t bode well for Arthur’s condition. Perhaps they had hesitated to move him further. It didn’t occur to him that they might also have wished to wait for him.

Gwaine showed him into the cave in the cliff side, stooping low to avoid hitting his head. It was fairly small; there was enough room for Arthur to have been lain down straight on his back, next to a steaming pot of hot water, a pitcher and bowl of cold, and a decent pile of cloths and bandages. They had brought a medical kit with them, but no one had made a move to open it, not really knowing what to do with its contents. There was just enough space left for a small fire, smoke filtering out of a convenient crack in the cave’s ceiling, and an attendant to move about, or lay down to rest nearby. The cave had the benefit of reasonable privacy. Unless you were right in front of it, and ducking to see inside, it’s contents were invisible, except for the faint glow coming from the fire. 

At the moment, Elyan was kneeling by Arthur’s head, mopping the feverish king's brow with cool water. Arthur had been laid on a thick layer of, Merlin suspected, everyone’s bedrolls, and piled up with what was probably the entire company’s supply of blankets and cloaks. The knights would most likely sleep cold that night, but their king most assuredly would not.

Elyan stood, slightly stooped due to the low ceiling, when Merlin came in. He, at least, did not have something to say against Merlin’s secret task, but simply gave him a brief update on the king. 

“He was in and out of consciousness for a while there, but pretty delirious. He hasn’t opened his eyes for a while now though. He’s had a little water at least.” He gave Merlin a comforting squeeze on the shoulder on the way out, and went to join Percival, now cooking on the fire outside. 

Gwaine looked at him for a moment without expression, then glanced at Arthur, deciding for the moment to drop his arguments. “You need anything mate, give a shout.” He sighed, gave Merlin a nod and a weak smile, and joined Elyan and Percival at the fire.

Merlin turned away from the men outside and moved to Arthur’s side, grabbing the medical kit on his way past. From now until he was stable, he would have his undivided attention. 

The temperature in the cave was actually surprisingly warm, but even with that and the pile of blankets on top of him, Arthur was shivering and shuddering violently. Merlin shoved the pot of hot water into the coals to boil, and took out some herb packets from the kit. “Yarrow, elderflower, willow bark…” he muttered to himself, crumbling up the mixture in the kit’s little horn cup, and pouring boiling water over it. He needed to begin combating the fever. He set the little cup aside to cool, settling it into the cold dirt for speed.

The next couple of hours passed quickly. After at last removing the magic hindering metal remaining on them both, and making a quick assessment of the severity of Arthur’s many wounds, Merlin pulled back the blankets in sections at a time to deal with what lay underneath. 

He thoroughly washed Arthur’s skin clear of grime and blood at last, and carefully cleaned every mark, aside from where the wood still stabbed him. Finally he did not want for clean water, and the knights were quick to refill his supply from a nearby stream. The wounds were then smeared generously with unguent, stitched with catgut where needed, and wrapped up with clean bandages.

He sent out healing spells with the non-magical remedies, in hopes of helping them along, encouraging everything to heal easily and fade cleanly, but he cursed the fact that healing was not something he was particularly skilled at. It would also, of course, be dangerous to make the wounds disappear entirely, as all the knights had seen the extent of them by now.

He called for splints for the broken bones, but mourned for Arthur as he tried to set them right, steeling against his squeamishness. The arm he thought was a clean break. With luck, and a little magic, it would heal--though hanging on it for several hours had done it no favours--but his sword hand was woefully damaged. Merlin doubted he’d have the strength to wield a sword with it again even if the fingers healed true. His knee was worse; all Merlin could do was set it straight, his magic could not hope to put the crushed joint to rights, though he tried. If it bent again, it would be a miracle. Arthur would spend the rest of his young life a cripple, and Merlin thought it might just kill him. In spirit, if not in body.

He administered the fever drug, and made more, keeping up a steady supply. After a good deal of effort, he thought he had successfully dealt with all but one of the splinters in Arthur’s limbs, stitching up the wounds after cleaning them of all bits of wood, but one he left, stabbing right through Arthur’s inner thigh. It lay right next to the bone almost half way down, a spot that would bleed so much when removed that Merlin was terribly afraid to pull it out. It hadn’t already caused permanent damage to the leg due to the magic in the wood, but even with that, leaving it in was sure to cripple him before long. Those stabbing his torso worried him even more. The foreign material in Arthur’s body would keep up the constant state of infection, and the king would only be able to hold out for so long. If they did not come out and allow the fever to break, it would kill him.

But so too would pulling any of them out. Merlin had tried experimentally shifting the wood slightly, sending a tendril of magic in to witness the effects, but no matter what he tried, the movement of the wood would cause irreparable damage to the organs it stabbed through, and Merlin dared not try anything on his own. The time had come to ask for aid once again.

He wanted to get another dosage of fever remedy into Arthur before he left, hoping it would keep the deep infection at bay long enough for Merlin to do what needed doing. He had just levered Arthur’s head and shoulders up slightly onto his bent knee to help him drink, and was putting the cup and its contents to his lips, when Arthur pulled a face at the intensely bitter stuff, and opened his eyes.

“Arthur!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, surprised but pleased to see him wake. “One more sip sire, and its finished.”

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment wearily, but opened them again a little more alert. He looked at the cup, then to Merlin, making the ghost of a humorous grimace. Merlin beamed down at him, and brought the cup back to his lips. He finished it with another look of extreme distaste, and Merlin set the cup down.

“I’ll try to find some honey for the next batch,” he promised, though he had none. Arthur quirked the corner of his mouth, blinking pointedly in lieu of a nod.

Merlin sat with him a while, half on his lap, cradling his head in the crook of one arm. He changed the cloth on Arthur’s forehead with a cooler one, and Arthur sighed, closing his eyes. Without thinking, Merlin started to stroke his hair again, just as he had the first night he had needed comforting. To his surprise, Arthur, who he was certain was lucid, relaxed into it, allowing himself to be comforted. Merlin was touched at the trust he was being shown, and was careful that none of the knights outside should see, protecting the king’s need for privacy and the appearance of stoicism when Arthur himself could not. They spent several quiet moments like that, and Merlin thought, had the circumstances been different, he would have been happy to share such a rare moment of affection with his friend. 

“How bad?” Arthur finally spoke, voice cracking and barely audible.

“Bad enough,” Merlin answered gently, “but you’re not going to die.” He would see to that, whatever the cost.

“Liar.” Arthur's voice held the barest hint of humour, and the corner of his mouth twitched up again. The effort the tortured man was putting into making the perfectly whole Merlin feel better brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them away. He didn’t need tears; Arthur would live.

“Arrogant turnip-head,” Merlin gibed gently, “who’s the healer here, you or me?” Arthur smiled slightly, and it warmed Merlin’s heart. He brought a note of severity to his voice, “I’m serious though Arthur. I meant it. You’re not going to die of this.”

Arthur’s brilliant blue eyes opened again, and he met Merlin’s sincere stare. He gazed up at him for a moment, and then nodded. Somehow, Arthur seemed to believed him, or at the least, believed he would try his hardest to make it so. Merlin blinked back tears again. Soon, Arthur would no longer trust him. He couldn’t, not after Merlin did what had to be done, but dammit, he would live!

“I have to go and gather some herbs,” Merlin excused himself gently.

“S’night out.” Arthur said dryly. His voice sounded slightly stronger. Maybe the decoction was working a bit after all.

“I know it’s night out,” Merlin said in a teasing voice, “but _someone_ went and got themselves grievously injured, and now he needs his medicine at terribly inconvenient times. Complete prat, no regard for the people who’d be stuck looking after him.”

Arthur actually rolled his eyes. 

Merlin gently lowered Arthur back down to the pile of blankets. Arthur made a hissing noise as his injuries were moved.

“Arthur, s--”

“I know,” Arthur interrupted him, looking up at him with a wry look, “stop being such a girl’s petticoat.”

Merlin chuckled weakly at the joke. Suppose Arthur was done feeling vulnerable, he thought. “I’ll send someone in, keep you company.” Arthur nodded, and he rose to his feet, ducking slightly. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

“I know,” Arthur replied.

Merlin turned and headed out into the night, sending in Leon, and making his excuses. He needed to have a conversation with a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly snitched all the old English from Merlin wiki, btw. I think the results are clear enough without translation, but if you want to go have a peek, have at it.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for is up at last!
> 
> Hope you've all had good holidays, those of you who celebrated. Now that that's over I should be able to go back to updating a little more quickly now, for the last couple chapters anyway.
> 
> Also get to borrow my dad's work laptop for the week, as he's home for a week's holiday, and I can go over to my parent's place and mooch wifi and computer while he's out. Relevant, in that I've at least started my next story (it goes with the illustration I posted a few days ago, for those curious). Someday I'll be able to post it as well!

“You do know the severity of what you ask of me, young warlock.” The tone of the statement demanded a confirmation.

“Yes,” Merlin answered, voice firm. “Arthur must live. And he must live whole. He’s not a king who could lead his men from the sidelines. He rules by example. He must be able to fight again, not just... exist.”

“Very well.” Kilgharrah took a deep breath, then brought himself closer to Merlin in a rustling of scales and leathery wings. He blew gently over Merlin, breath warm and dry in contrast with the cold night air. Merlin had been lent a shirt at least, but that and his jacket was not quite adequate. The dragon’s breath warmed him to the core, and breathed an ancient magic directly into the sorcerer’s mind; at once Merlin had the spell that would save his king.

“Thank you, cousin, for everything.” Merlin whirled around, about to sprint directly back to Arthur’s side.

“Emrys.” 

Merlin paused, looking back over his shoulder. Kilgharrah’s yellow eyes bored into his own.

“Arthur needs you Merlin. I’d advise you to do _nothing_ that would keep you from his side.”

Merlin met his stare, and nodded once. The dragon returned the gesture, and leapt into the air, rapidly disappearing from sight. ‘ _Good luck to you, young warlock_ ,’ the farewell sounded in Merlin’s mind. He took off with earnest back to the cave.

Just outside of camp he snatched a handful of leaves from a nearby random bush to fulfill his excuse--the knights would never notice anyway--and strode through camp and ducked into the cave. Gwaine and Arthur both looked up at his entrance, the former mid wild gesture from some tale, the latter sleepily, but with a light smile on his face.

“Finally,” Arthur breathed quietly, swiveling his eyes pointedly towards Gwaine, “hasn’t even stop’d. to breath. ‘n ages.” His eyes were drooping shut with exhaustion, and the talking obviously cost him effort, but his smile was genuine.

“Ha!” Gwaine huffed good naturedly. “No appreciation for a master storyteller.” The knight got up and clapped Merlin on the back on his way out, calling back to Arthur, “I’ll leave you to your sleep and remedies, princess.” 

When they were alone Arthur’s face sagged back into weariness, no longer feeling the need to keep up appearances. Merlin tossed his handful of leaves by the fire and knelt beside the king. He put a palm on his forehead; his fever was worse than ever, his skin slick with sweat and pale as ash. The blue under his eyes and the red spots on his cheeks stood out in remarkable, bruise-like contrast, matching the rest of his gruesomely colored body.

“I’ve found something that will get you back on your feet,” Merlin told him, forcing cheer into voice. “A bit of sleep and you’ll wake up a new man.”

Arthur made a skeptical sound in his throat, not opening his eyes. Merlin rummaged around for the ingredients for a strong sleeping draft, and set his water to boiling; one of the knights had refilled it for him while he was gone.

While the decoction steeped, Merlin stepped out to the fire to have a bite to eat. Since the meager gruel last night, he’d only had the stuffed roll Gwaine had given him, and his hands were beginning to shake for the need of food; he’d need his strength as well. 

The mood was morose around the fire. Percival was taking his turn to keep watch, and the other three sat huddled around the fire, clustered shoulder to shoulder to keep warm without their cloaks. Gwaine dished him out a bowl of soup, and Elyan offered him a tin tumbler of a warm earthy drink made from roasted acorns. As he gulped it down, they sat in silence.

Merlin rose a few minutes later, setting his dishes aside. He asked the men to set aside a serving of soup broth for Arthur in the morning. The nodded dutifully, and no doubt would do so, but Merlin was sure none of them thought it would be needed. They’d all been to visit the king that evening. They nodded dumbly again when Merlin requested that Arthur not be disturbed that night, as he needed rest, Merlin explained, and then Merlin headed back to the cave.

Arthur was dozing when he entered, but woke when he heard Merlin puttering about the fire.

“Here Arthur, this will give you a good night’s rest, just what you need.” He brought the small cup up to Arthur’s mouth, reaching out to gently lift his head.

“Wait,” Arthur said, voice rasping. “Merlin, if I should not--”

“Arthur, what did I tell you, you’re going to be fine.” Merlin tried to bring the cup up again, but was interrupted.

“No,” Arthur said firmly, lifting his left hand with effort to block the cup. “Please Merlin, I appreciate your optimism, but I will speak.” His tone on the last was that of a king sitting his throne, for all its quietness.

Merlin sucked in his lips, but took the cup back. Arthur went on. “ _If_ , I should not make it back to Camelot, please tell Guinevere…” he paused, and Merlin saw a depth of emotion in his eyes as he sought the words to sum up an impossibly deep well of feelings. “Tell her I love her, and she was with me to the last.” He finally settled on the simple, knowing his wife would understand. Merlin nodded solemnly. “And I want to thank you Merlin--”

“Sire...” Merlin looked away, ears glowing and face flushed with guilt rather than pleasure. Arthur wouldn’t thank him when he woke up and found out he was a traitor.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur insisted with a note of exasperation, “I mean it. You’ve shown loyalty above and beyond your vocation, and I've come to think of you as a true friend.”

Merlin flushed brighter still, and tears prickled his eyes though not for the reasons Arthur would presume. Merlin sniffed loudly and turned a watery gaze onto the face of his king. A true friend, yes, Merlin felt the same of course and now he was about to destroy that bond. Though he had no choice. Arthur must be healed.

“I’d ask of you one thing,” Arthur added, almost tentatively. His voice was growing weaker, his sudden speech wearing him out. 

Merlin nodded him along. “Anything.”

Arthur smiled, and closed his eyes. “Please look out for Gwen. Watch her back, as I know you’ve always been watching mine. She’ll shoulder a heavy burden.” The smile dimmed.

Merlin swallowed thickly. “Of course I will. You know I will.” 

Arthur’s smile rekindled, and he sighed, settling back into his nest of blankets. “Thank you, my friend.”

Merlin gave him the sleeping draught again, and this time Arthur took it without complaint. “I’ll see you in the morning, Arthur.” Merlin said softly.

“Of course.” And Arthur was asleep.

Merlin turned and crawled to the door. Three silhouettes were visible around the fire, haloed in a soft orange glow. They appeared deep in quiet conversation. The fourth man would be off patrolling the woods, on watch. Merlin thought he’d be safe from disturbance for a while.

He crawled back to Arthur, and placed a hand on his chest through the blankets. “ _Swefe_ ,” a spell for a deeper sleep. The tea had put him under naturally, helped along by his state of exhaustion, but Merlin needed to be sure he would not be waking in the next while.

Next he lifted the blankets covering Arthur’s body, moving them off to the side. Most of him was swathed in a layer of bandages. Merlin carefully cut these away; with luck, he would no longer need most of them. He gently pulled the material away from the wounds and around the pieces of wood still stuck in Arthur’s body, pulling everything off to each side; he still laid on the stuff, but it would not matter. Next, he carefully picked out all his careful stitching from earlier. Now that he was doing a healing, it wouldn’t do to keep the thread in. After what he had in mind, there was no way any of it would escape notice. He’d go ahead and heal as much as he could.

He placed his hands on Arthur’s bared chest, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He reached inside his well of magic, ever present, and gathered it into his arms. Then he spoke the words the dragon had gifted him, voice going husky and primal as the powerful words flowed out of him. “ _Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!_ ” 

He felt the spell go to work through him immediately, and he grabbed it with an unyielding hand. Kilgharrah had told him how he must bend the spell to his will, direct it’s force to where it was most needed without burning up the reserves of the body. Either of their bodies. Healing naturally demanded a heavy toll; an injured party required hours of extra sleep and rest. Healing magic required a similar exchange of energy--some provided by the practitioners powers, but some must come from the body. Merlin would be able to tap into his own reserves, to help Arthur’s along, but with the shape they were both in, it was risky. Forcing his body to heal too much, too fast could burn up either of their life forces, and as Arthur required an incredible amount of healing, iron control would be absolutely necessary. This was no mere healing of a single mortal wound, like he’d done before on Morgana years ago.

The most worrying of Arthur’s injuries were the wooden impalements piercing his organs, and the major blood vessels of his leg, so first Merlin went to these. He grabbed the first, and firmly pulled it out from Arthur’s side. It tugged at his flesh, but came loose under his guidance. He followed its path out from the body with a tendril of his concentrated magic, healing the damage as he went out. When the splinter came out, it was followed by several tiny pieces that would have otherwise been left behind, these carried along in a sickly ooze of pus and blood.  
He decided to leave some depth to the wound in the muscle after healing the main damage and scabbing it over; it would be tender, but would heal naturally in time. He had a lot to do, and it was imperative to conserve energy enough to get to all the major damage. He could come back later if possible.

He followed through with the rest of the splinters in the same way, and put a guiding hand on the stab wounds he’d already taken care on on arm and leg, pulling out any debris that had been left behind. By this time Arthur was slick again with everything poisonous that had come out of him.

In each of the other wounds as well, Merlin snuffed out the burning flames of infection and fever, and forced out any filth. The heat of sickness, needing to go somewhere, sought to consume Arthur’s flesh as it was forced out of him, much as a sickness naturally ravishes a body over time as its fought, but at dangerous speeds. Merlin, fingers of power buried deep in Arthur’s body could feel the king’s flagging reserves, and knew his weakened body wouldn’t take the stress. Instead, he fed the flames from his own vitality. The effort left him gasping, but by the end of it, Arthur was back to a healthy temperature, and sleeping easier for the loss of feverous dreams.

Next he put his concentration on the broken bones. The ribs he set to knitting properly, they’d feel several weeks healed by morning. The crushed knee was a complicated mess, and he poured out a great deal of his energy into making sure the job was done properly . He allowed Arthur’s own body’s tissues to guide his aim; they knew where they needed to be for healing, and willingly soaked up Merlin’s powers setting themselves to rights.

The bones of arm and hand were more straightforward, but Merlin made sure that the healing of them also was perfect. Arthur would be devastated to lose the use of his sword arm or his grace of movement, to the degree that the Arthur he knew wouldn’t survive the loss. With that in mind, he healed arm, hand and knee entirely, despite the cost. He wanted no chance of a weakened spot being reinjured. There was no going back now anyway. Despite Kilgharrah’s warning, this would be the most completely obvious use of magic. Yet how could he not do so for his friend? He just hoped, when he was no longer considered so, he could still find a way to continue his role as protector. It was his destiny, and he could not, he would not give that up.

By this point Merlin was sweating freely, and his hands shook. He knew he was close to the point of collapse, but Arthur was still covered in angry burns, battered flesh and the marks of the lash and the flaying on top of the partly healed stab wounds. While they were perfectly clear at the moment, all would be for naught if any of these became infected later, and in truth, it pained Merlin to think of Arthur having the constant reminder of this ordeal written on his skin.

With a last surge of magic, he sent his healing into each of these, first giving his strength to knit the flesh together to the point of a solid week’s healing. For the shallower lacerations and burns, this would be of great help. The stabs would take more time, but at least they were closed over and clean. Secondly, to push the flesh to heal as cleanly as possible. With luck, Arthur would come out of this with a remarkable lessening of scar tissue.

It was that last task that made it clear to Merlin that he may have gone a little too far. He felt the flow of his own energy into Arthur’s sputter, and for critical moments, the magic continued unhindered. With a sudden lurch and a distinct loss of mental clarity, Merlin realized he was on the verge of collapse. Hurriedly, before he lost consciousness, he pinched his magic off from Arthur’s dwindling well of strength; in the event of Merlin’s losing consciousness too soon, the spell would not be able to take hold and burn through it, snuffing out his life even as his body healed. With a final surge of effort, he pulled the magic back into himself, to end the spell and save himself the same fate. He lost hold on reality before he could tell if it was done. He thought vaguely, he hoped so, as if it wasn’t it would probably kill him.

* * * * * * *

In the early, dim light of predawn, Arthur felt himself waken from an incredibly deep sleep. He was, in fact, still so tired, that he didn’t even care to open his eyes. He tried to put a finger on what it was that had roused him, and thought perhaps it was because he was cold. Which was a little odd, because he was fairly certain he couldn’t remember what being warm felt like, so long had he been in a constant state of chill.

He reached automatically for a blanket, blindly found one in a heap next to him, and pulled it over himself in an absent minded sort of way, forgetting that the movement should have been a painful one. Better, he thought. He supposed the fire had gone out, but he was just so tired, he didn’t want to make shift to tend to it.

It was some time, given his understandably muzzy state of mind, before he remembered that he should be surprised to be awake. He thought about it a moment and recalled that, when he had last closed his eyes, he had not expected to ever open them again. Then he remembered why.

His eyes flew open, but he was suddenly afraid to move. His breathing became quick and shallow as his anxiety kicked in. He saw the ceiling of the cave, though only very faintly in the dim light, and his peripheral vision faded into black. He was aware that he should be in a great deal of pain, but oddly, he was not. Slightly uncomfortable, even a little strangely itchy, but certainly not on the verge of death. Unless this was what death felt like? Perhaps the pain receded, allowing a person a moment of peace before they slipped off. He supposed he should be laying in silent contemplation while awaiting death, but his mind felt more restless than anything else, though his limbs felt full of lead. 

Eventually he decided that he was in fact growing more alert, rather than slipping off his mortal existence. Very, very gingerly, he turned his head to the side. He was now amazed that the motion didn’t hurt, and began to grow suspicious. Either he was dying or he was not, but if he was, this was not what he had expected.

The fire _had_ gone out; he could see very little, but he thought that someone was laying off to one side of him. Probably Merlin, exhausted from tending him. He reached out very tentatively to touch Merlin’s shoulder. His arm didn’t hurt. Merlin didn’t move. Something was very off here.

Bracing himself, he sat up. His head spun; he really was incredibly drained, but he felt nearly sound of body. How was that possible? He brought his hands to his chest, the blanket having fallen off as he sat up. The bandages were gone, and so were the splinters. He felt only unpleasantly sticky skin, and wounds that were tender to touch, but remarkably better than he remembered.

“Merlin,” he whispered, a little frantically. What on earth had he given him?

He flexed his sword hand. It ached a bit, like a freshly healed broken bone, but that was all. He shifted his knee, and moved his arm, feeling nothing but slight tenderness there as well. 

He choked with emotion to feel it, honestly, staring a moment at the hand he never thought to use in battle again. Arthur had felt the devastation of thinking he’d forever lost his ability to fight, but it was grossly overshadowed by other fears at the time. Then, he had come to terms with the fact that he was dying, and a dead man did not need to wield a sword. Now, he would live, and he would fight. Tears pricked his eyes, but he sniffed loudly and shoved them back. 

But how was it possible? “ _Mer_ lin,” his confusion was swiftly growing, and though he was truly happy to feel well, he felt that hint of panic as well. This really was impossible. Had Merlin put him to sleep so long he didn’t notice healing? “ _Merlin_.” But no, he’d felt the wood festering in his body. It was not something he should have healed from at all. “ _Merlin!_ ”

He finally turned to physically awaken him, as his name clearly wasn’t doing it. He needed answers. Merlin was deep asleep, so Arthur grabbed his shoulder and shook. Merlin’s body flopped, completely limp. Arthur furrowed his brow, concerned, and pushed the prone man onto his back. His face was deathly pale, startlingly so. Arthur immediately put a hand to his forehead, relieved to find it warm, and moved to feel his breath. Slow, but steady.

Arthur grabbed a cloth from the bowl near his makeshift pillow, the water gone quite chill, wrung it out a bit and dabbed it on Merlin’s face. The cold did not wake him either. Suddenly concerned for the temperature, for it was quite cool in the cave without the fire, and Merlin was dressed only in his light jacket over a shirt that was too big for him, Arthur tossed the cloth back in the bowl and peeled a couple of his own blankets off. He settled these around his friend, thinking rapidly, but dismissing most of his ideas immediately as nonsense.

Sorcery? He looked at clumsy, useless, ridiculously loyal Merlin, and snorted. Of course not. Where would he have found a sorcerer. Except for back at the castle. Arthur shuddered involuntarily. No, Skellik would not have done this. He trusted his knights to keep watch for him, and when he got back to Camelot, he’d be mounting a full offence on Savage and his wicked servant. No, it couldn’t be magic.

And yet? What else could it be? Merlin had a passing talent with Gaius’s herbs and things, but even the court physician himself could not have done this. Perhaps a magical creature came in the night. He had had an odd dream involving a great deal of fire and a pair of great yellow eyes, but no, of course that was ridiculous. He knew fever dreams were utter nonsense, he’d experienced enough of them. Besides, what creature would have done so, and how, with his men outside, and Merlin in here.

But Merlin was completely asleep. Out from the world. He granted that Merlin had had an exhausting ordeal as well, and had been tending him all night, at least, until the miraculous had happened, but still. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. This was all so impossible! Had an invisible magical creature knocked Merlin unconscious to heal him? Had Merlin fought it off?

That was perhaps possible--Merlin was a brave man, for all his faults. Not that it explained why a creature… Wait? If Merlin had been knocked out fighting, how about his knights?

Slowly, he brought himself to his hands and knees, still marveling at his ability to do so. The movement took a lot out of him, and lead him to discover that many of his wounds, while infinitely better, where still a bit raw. Unsteadily he crawled to the entrance and peered out.

Three men were barely visible, lying on the ground, in the faint glow of a near dead fire, and the slowly lightening sky. They were very very still, but Arthur could not tell if it was the stillness of sleep, or something more. He was about to crawl out further when someone farted loudly and rolled over. In response to this, another man groaned quietly and shifted position. Arthur rolled his eyes. No, they were alright. 

He crawled back into the cave. He was strangely reluctant to wake his men with his new mystery. In reality, some subconscious part of his mind was growing suspicious of Merlin, while another somewhat stronger one was feeling the need to shield him. He would wait a bit and see if Merlin would wake up, and offer some sort of explanation. For now, he’d let his rescuers sleep.

Well, he thought, at least there was one thing he could do something about, and that was the cold. He would start a fire, maybe have a peek in the supplies stashed in the cave. He was famished. He was also aware of how awful he must smell after days locked up, sweating and bleeding all over himself. He’d heat some water up too. 

There were a few small coals left in the bed of ash, which was all an experienced outdoorsman needed to get a merry flame lit in a matter of moments. He had to fight a moment of panic as he reached a hand near the red-hot coals, suddenly reminded vividly of the sight of branding irons, but he managed to get himself out of control. Damn the man, he would not allow Skellik such an impact in his life after merely two days with him. He grabbed a few sticks from the generous supply of wood left at hand and spitefully brought the flames roaring back to life. Arthur had had to pull Merlin away from the flames in fact, for he was ridiculously close, as if he just fallen into a dead exhaustion mid ointmenting. 

Arthur was a bit startled to find, in the light of the fire, that he was in fact incredibly filthy. Not that he had expected to come out of that place a rose, but it honestly looked as if his wounds… well yes, actually, he poked tentatively at the spot where a spike had been earlier embedded somewhere in his liver, it looked as if his wounds had literally been completely expunged of all infection by some force, and partly healed, leaving the grisly evidence behind. And it had happened all over him. _What_ had _happened?_

As he sat and wiped himself off with the lukewarm water he had been too impatient to heat fully, he had to admit to himself, that sorcery of some kind was the only plausible explanation, and Merlin was obviously somehow involved in the incident. He had been very insistent the night before that Arthur would live to see another day. Many other days in fact. Arthur had supposed he was just trying to offer him comfort before gifting a dying man a decent sleep he’d likely never wake from, but here he was, most definitely alive, and then some.

He thought back to when his own father had been dying. He’d been desperate enough to try magic then, to heal him. It hadn’t worked, and he had known then that his own poor decision had cost his father his life. Arthur knew he’d never do it again. But hadn’t Merlin also admitted he’d use magic if desperate? He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the spell go wrong and kill Uther. Perhaps he had been desperate enough last night to find a sorcerer to heal him too.

But how would he have known where to look? He’d been gone for less than an hour to gather some important herb in the middle of the night. Had he just happened to bump into the friendly local wizard, who said sure! I’ll heal your ailing friend who holds a kingdom wide ban on magic. And then his men had just let him in? He was missing a very big piece of this puzzle. 

Missing it, or refusing to see it.

He stared at Merlin, sleeping peacefully under a borrowed blanket and a bright red Camelot cloak. The warmth had given him some color, Arthur noticed. He sighed, frustration and confusion mixing unpleasantly with the euphoria of waking up completely, inexplicably alive.

“ _C’mon_ Merlin, you have to tell me what happened,” he groaned quietly, “I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me what you did!” He placed a hand on Merlin’s upper arm, and was taken aback when Merlin’s body became suddenly tense under his hand with a violent start.

All at once, a number of things happened that would change the dynamic between the two men forever. Merlin sprang awake with a gasp, face twisted in confused terror. His eyes flew open, and met Arthur’s own without a hint of recognition. They flashed sorcerer’s gold as Merlin thrust a panicked hand out to protect himself. Arthur recoiled in horror from the sight, and was further shoved back as a sickeningly familiar, invisible force grabbed hold of his body and held him rigid. For a second time, Arthur fought back sheer panic. The feeling of the magic brought him right back to being with Skellik in his chamber of horrors, being held and manipulated by the same force Merlin was using, and his mind was reeling at what he’d just seen in Merlin’s eyes.

In the span of a single heartbeat it was over, and Merlin seemed to come to with where he was and who he was with. Arthur was immediately dropped back on his pile of blankets and lay gasping and pale, looking after his one time friend, who gave him a final look of utter guilt and sorrow, and ran, choking back tears, from the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the by, I got lazy and literally the spell to heal Arthur here is exactly the same as the one Kilgharrah gave Merlin to heal Morgana that one time, so there it is XD


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, you know what actually, have this chapter too. I like this one XD

Arthur took the barest of moments to get a hold of himself, shoving Skellik’s jeering face firmly aside. Merlin, it was only Merlin. It was only _Merlin who was apparently a bleeding sorcerer!_

It was such a ridiculous notion that he almost began doubting what he’d just seen and felt, but no. He could not deny the evidence right before his eyes. Merlin. Idiotic, couldn’t find his own head in the dark Merlin, practiced magic. He shook his head; it was as if his entire world had just been flipped on its head, and then stepped on.

Magic was evil. Merlin was good. Merlin was magic? It just didn’t add up!

He’d been willing to grant that the man, loyal and desperate, had maybe been in league with a sorcerer. He’d been there himself; desperate times called for desperate measures and all that, but looking down at himself, alive and very nearly well in comparison to what he had been, that sort of thing wasn’t just picked up overnight, he was sure. And he’d seen the eyes, felt the spell. Merlin had definitely practiced magic.

Without quite realizing what he was doing, Arthur was rummaging around in the cave for something to throw over himself by way of clothing. To his surprise, a cloth sack contained both his shirt and jacket, so he threw those on. There seemed to be an unfortunate lack of breeches or boots, so in a huff he snatched a bright red Camelot cloak from his pile, wrapped it awkwardly about his middle, and stooping out of the cave entrance, took off after Merlin.

Still fuming, and not really sure what he was going to do when he caught up to him, Arthur stormed through camp barefoot. Percival, Elyan and Gwaine were all standing and gaping, with the look of men who had been startled awake by something non-threatening but entirely unexpected. Leon was just crashing through a bit of underbrush, evidently having heard the sounds of surprise Merlin’s hasty exit had elicited while standing watch. All four of them swiveled around to look at Arthur as he came barreling out of the cave in a bundle of red, and if they’d looked surprised before, they now looked absolutely dumbfounded.

“Sire!” They all seemed to say at once, jaws hanging, eyes round. Arthur had no time for them at the moment, or he would have enjoyed their looks of surprised elation. He spared them a hurried nod, trying to look assertive in a bundle of cloth, bare-legged and bare-footed.

“Merlin.”

Gwaine pointed mutely off to the left, and he and the rest made as if to go with him, wherever he was going. Utterly confused but loyal to a fault, the lot of them. Arthur almost smiled, but it couldn’t make it out past the wall of temper brewing in his mind.

Arthur put out a firm hand, “No, stay here. That’s an order,” he added firmly when Gwaine looked ready to argue. “I’ll be back, and with answers. Wait.” They did, thought they didn’t look pleased about it. Arthur took off through the forest, feet freezing and crunching on every pebble and thistle on his path, he was quite sure.

He was angry. And terribly confused, and not a little hurt. Merlin had betrayed him. The facts had settled in his mind as he’d hurriedly gotten ready to follow his fleeing servant. Merlin had magic. Evil, wicked magic. It was not new, it couldn’t be. Looking back, he’d come up with a slew of miraculous victories and impossibly lucky escapes over the last many years. And who was a constant in all of them? Merlin. And yet… evil, wicked Merlin? That too, was impossible. He knew Merlin, almost like a brother, albeit an annoying and younger brother. Didn’t he?

For years, Merlin had always been with him, through thick and through thin. After his father had assigned the boy to him, he’d stuck like a burr to his side, and never really left. Since then they’d each been willing to lay down their lives for each other, more than once. There was a deep bond of trust there. Or, Arthur had though there was.

He didn’t trust me enough to tell me this, he thought bitterly, stumbling over an especially sharp root, and cursing. That was Merlin’s fault too. Running through a half frozen forest at dawn, forcing him to come after him like this. At least the sun was making an appearance now. Merlin’s trail was adequately illuminated. He’d apparently been stumbling and crashing through here worse than Arthur and his half numb feet.

And what, some reasonable voice in his mind asked him, would you have done if Merlin had told you? Arthur snorted harshly, sending a rabbit streaking out from under a bush where it had frozen at his passage. During his father’s reign, he’d have been sentenced to burn at the stake. Would a friend want to put a friend and prince in that kind of position of divided loyalties? 

Alright, after then. Arthur had kept up the ban for magic, but he hadn’t actually sentenced anyone solely for practicing it. And the druids! He’d promised the druids leniency hadn’t he? And why had he done that? The persistent little voice asked. He snorted again, because he’d been forced to at sword point by an angry spirit! But no, he wouldn’t lie to himself. He had meant his words with complete sincerity. And had he not just proven he could not be forced into something that would harm his people? He had the marks to prove it!

The druids had proven themselves peaceful, and their slaughter had been wrong, that was why. And they used magic. They were not evil. So maybe magic was not always evil?

He snarled, pulling at his hair in his hands in a fit of frustration, then hastily snatched back up the cloak he had dropped to the ground. Merlin was a good person, that much he was certain. But his friend had also betrayed him, for many years. Was he justified?

Arthur stopped in his tracks, and looked into his soul. Was Merlin justified in not telling him about his magic? 

Had Merlin used his magic for good? Undoubtedly. Last night notwithstanding, Arthur was more and more sure that his friend had saved his life more than once, now that he thought about it. Had he used it for evil? Arthur truly doubted it. And what of his own reactions to magic over the years? He’d supported his father’s ban for as long as he’d reigned. Arthur had questioned the brutality, and Uther’s penchant to accuse without reasonable proof, but he supported the ban. And the one time he had been willing to consent to sorcery, it had backfired. He’d told Merlin after that incident that his hatred of magic was reinforced and justified. That’s how he’d begun his reign as King. Perhaps, then, it was reasonable that Merlin had hesitated to tell him?

It didn’t explain why Merlin had started in the first place. He’d grown up just outside of Camelot, where Uther had no jurisdiction. Had he begun there? Could Arthur even be angry at someone for breaking the law outside the boundaries of where those laws were held? Perhaps not. He had certainly been practicing since then in Camelot, but only, he was sure, to keep him and the kingdom safe. 

Arthur sighed, and continued on Merlin’s trail. It was widening, becoming more obvious, like the trail of a wounded deer. Merlin had been unconscious in the cave until he had startled violently awake. Whatever he had done to Arthur, it had clearly been grueling. He began to feel a new emotion worming its way into his mind; worry. 

To be sure, he was still angry, but not entirely at his servant. He was angry at himself. His friend had had an incredible secret, and he had not been the sort of person he had felt safe enough to tell. He was still hurt, but not a bit of it was the hurt of the empathy he felt for Merlin. 

His next steps brought him into a small clearing. At the far side of it, not twenty feet from him, stood Merlin. He was facing away from him, and visibly tensed when he heard Arthur’s approach.

Arthur took a few slow steps into the clearing and stopped. Merlin did not run away, but stood where he was as if frozen in place. Arthur could see even from this distance that his shoulders shook, but from cold or emotion, he could not tell.

Arthur was about to step closer, initiate a hesitant contact, when Merlin whipped around to face him. Arthur could not help it; he jumped back a pace, raising a hand in an uncertain defense. When Merlin saw this, his already moon pale face, streaked with tears, broke completely. He covered his face in his hands, took several staggering steps forward and dropped to his knees, head bowed, neck exposed to Arthur in obvious heartbreaking submission. Any anger Arthur still felt towards him fled permanently at the sight.

Arthur looked skywards for some passing bit of guidance, and sighed, finding none. He walked carefully over to his prone, shuddering friend, free hand stretched out to him as if approaching a fearful horse.

When Arthur got within a few feet of him, Merlin began shaking in earnest, swiveling his head side to side, face still buried in his hands. “Arth--sire, I’m so sorry.” He was barely audible, speaking through clutching fingers and broken sobs.

“Merlin,” Arthur groaned, half meaning to comfort him, half with an exasperation he could not help but feel. He stooped gingerly, arranging his cloak wrapping to provide his bare legs some protection from frost and prickle. “Merlin,” he said more firmly, but not unkindly, “you don’t have to apologize.”

Merlin looked up from his hands, tears still leaking from his eyes. He looked pathetic, Arthur thought, and mentally kicked himself. He looked like that because he was afraid of you. 

“Ar--sire, I have magic!” Merlin insisted, looking up at him like he expected--and accepted--a killing blow right then and there. Arthur bowed his own head in shame.

He looked back up again, and met Merlin’s eyes. “I had actually noticed that Merlin.” He tried to sound sardonic, like Merlin had just done something stupid rather than treacherous, lighten the mood a bit.

Merlin just looked confused. “Sire, I…” He shook his head in disbelief, then looked back up at him with concern in his eyes. His eyes traveled over Arthur’s head and face questioningly, “are you alright?”

Arthur couldn’t help it, he laughed. Merlin’s concern grew deeper, clearly concerned for Arthur’s mental state. “Am I alright?” He asked incredulously. “Why yes Merlin, I am alright. And I’m not delusional either,” he added. He stood back up, causing Merlin to twitch slightly, and threw out an arm as if to display his wholeness. “Yesterday, I’m quite certain, I was dying. Then, you did something, and don’t tell me it had to do with some rare herb Merlin, I do know what a handful of oak leaves looks like, and here I am. Very much alive.” Arthur’s voice softened, and he continued. “And this isn’t the first time is it, that I owe you my life?”

During this little speech, Merlin’s face moved through a number of emotions, from surprise and disbelief to open skepticism, but he stared up at Arthur, who tried to convey as much sincerity and warmth into his eyes as he could, and Merlin finally lost some of his haunted look.

“You’re… not mad at me?” He asked quietly.

“I was,” Arthur admitted, and Merlin flushed and hung his head again. Arthur hurried on, “but it didn’t take me too long to realize what you’ve done Merlin. It was you, it was always you, wasn’t it.” Merlin looked back up at him tentatively. “You’ve had my back since the beginning haven’t you?”

“Sire, all I’ve ever wanted was to protect you, to keep you safe!” Merlin suddenly gushed. “My… my magic, it--” Merlin shook his shaggy head, looking for the right words. “It’s my destiny, Arthur, to look out for you, to keep you safe! And after I got to know you, I would have done so anyway.” His eyes pleaded with Arthur’s, begged him to understand. Arthur didn’t know much about destinies, but he was in no doubt of Merlin’s meaning, and how could he have ever been?

Arthur sighed, and offered his friend a hand up. Merlin looked at it, sniffed loudly, and took it, still looking as if he was not sure how he was not already dead.

Arthur hauled him up easily, for all his bone deep tiredness. He would have to make sure Merlin got plenty of food in the next few days. He’d wasted away far too much in that dungeon. He put his hand on Merlin’s bony shoulder, and looked him in the eye. “I know Merlin. You’re safe. You have my word, you’re safe.”

Merlin sagged then in relief, and without thinking, Arthur pulled him into a tight one-armed embrace. Merlin momentarily stiffened but quickly moved to return the hug, burying his face in Arthur’s shoulder with childlike abandon. Keeping his forearm tight around him, Arthur moved his hand up to cup the back of Merlin’s head, and gently stroked the hair there. Merlin made a choking sound and hugged him tighter.

Sniffing loudly again, Merlin finally pulled away, looking exhausted, but better. He wiped his face with his sleeve and gave a deep and shuddering sigh. Arthur, tired himself, noticed Merlin’s knees near knocking together in fatigue, and gently lead him to a nearby fallen log. “This isn’t really what I expected,” Merlin admitted shakily.

Arthur closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel the wash of shame he deserved to feel. “I know Merlin,” his voice was gruff, full of emotion that he wasn’t trying to hide for once, “and I’m sorry I ever gave you reason to think you had to fear me.” 

Arthur felt Merlin turn towards him, and opened his eyes to look at him. They reached the log and sat down. 

“I was going to tell you, you know. So many times I was going to tell you. It just… never seemed like the right time.” Arthur nodded his understanding. 

“Your magic,” Arthur began tentatively, “where--when did you learn it?”

Merlin smiled faintly, a slight raising of one side of his mouth as he stared at his grubby knees. “I didn’t actually. I was born with it. I couldn’t not be a sorcerer if I tried.” He ended a bit wryly.

Arthur was a bit taken aback. “Is that, er, normal?”

“Actually no.” Merlin admitted. He smiled again. “I’m the only one. I’m, er, kind of incredibly powerful. Probably the most powerful actually.” He looked mildly pleased with himself, and his ears turned a bit red. 

So not only was Merlin a sorcerer, he was a good one at that. Trust him to wind up with the weirdest and most terrifying sorcerer of them all as a servant. “Huh,” he said, not quite sure how to respond, but sounding suitably impressed. He was pleased to see the pride in Merlin’s face replacing the grief of earlier.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a time. Arthur looked sideways at Merlin, who seemed in danger of falling off the log in a sudden bout of unstoppable sleep. Arthur himself was feeling the possible need for another nap himself, not that he’d admit to it out loud.

Arthur cleared his throat suddenly. Merlin jumped out of his half doze, but not, he was glad to see, with fear. “We should maybe go back to camp now.” he suggested. “The men will be worried.”

Merlin’s eyes widened suddenly, and he glanced involuntarily down the path that led back to the cave. 

“They’ll see me, they already have.” Arthur said. “We’ll have to tell them of course, no other explanation would make sense. But you have my word. Like I said, you’re safe. I’ll protect you.” Arthur stood, and put a hand under Merlin’s arm, helping him heave himself up. The man was nearly done in.

Merlin looked grateful, then stood a moment to really look at Arthur’s appearance for the first time. The man actually laughed, and Arthur, secretly pleased at the sound, scowled at him. 

“ _You’ll_ protect me will you?” Merlin grinned at Arthur’s makeshift lower garment. “Don’t go and threaten your modesty.”

Arthur snorted, and set down the path at a slow enough pace he thought Merlin could keep up. “After the last few days I don’t think I have any modesty left.”

He had meant it to be a joke, but belatedly realized it wasn’t. There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation, and Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. He switched the subject. “So… uh, who all knows your big secret?” 

Merlin didn’t answer right away, and Arthur realized maybe that wasn’t the best question either. “Gaius,” he finally spoke up though. “My mother, of course. The druids, for some reason. They’ve always known.” There was a pause. “Lancelot knew.”

The last surprised him a little, but the rest didn’t. He nodded. 

They neared the camp now, and soon they could see the knights milling around, looking agitated. They all looked up when they entered camp together, multitudes of unspoken questions in their eyes giving them a fit to burst sort of look. Leon approached them first, apparently designating himself spokesman.

“Sire, it’s incredible to see you up and about,” Leon said. The subtext ‘ _but how?_ ’ written plain on his face.

Arthur nodded, stopping to face them all. Merlin hovered next to him, and slightly behind. “I’m as surprised as anyone,” he agreed. Leon stepped back to stand with the other three men, all watching with rapt attention. “The fact of the matter is, last night, despite your courageous, and extraordinary efforts, I was dying. I’m sure it was fairly clear to you all, that I was not likely to make it through the night.” Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably, but continued on gamely. “And then, someone took it upon themselves to risk their life to save mine, knowing fully the dangers of doing so, they did it anyway. Merlin saved my life last night. With sorcery.”

Arthur thought it was reasonable that the men would have already guessed magic was involved. How else could a man take off running from his deathbed into the cold early morning. What he wasn’t expecting was the fact that none of his knight’s looked terribly surprised. Elyan and Leon’s eyes got a little rounder, a knee jerk reaction to the mention of sorcery on Camelot, Percival became a shade or two paler for the same reason. Gwaine just nodded thoughtfully as if his suspicions of old had finally been confirmed. Had he really been that oblivious? Arthur thought to himself incredulously.

“Well that explains the dragon.” Gwaine noted casually. The other men nodded.

“The _what?!_ ” 

Merlin coughed suddenly behind him, and Arthur whipped around to look at him. 

“I, er, may also be the last dragon lord,” Merlin said delicately. Arthur blinked. He couldn’t even muster up any surprise anymore. Of course he was the last dragon lord. Merlin. Naturally.

“And what,” Arthur asked the group of them, clearly not being in on this particular detail, “does a dragon have to do with anything.”

“Well, when we were escaping the castle with you, sire”, offered Leon, “they must have discovered the guards we’d taken out. When we got to the grounds they were flooded with soldiers. A couple of them even had magic, sire. We would never have made it out except then a--”

“A bloody great dragon swooped in and burnt them all to a crisp,” Gwaine interrupted enthusiastically. “You really did that mate?”

Merlin nodded, looking pleased and embarrassed. 

“A dragon.” Arthur repeated. “A dragon that should no longer exist. That kind of dragon?”

“Well, see, what happened,” Merlin was rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking from one object to the next as if in search for inspiration among the trees and the bushes.

Arthur shook his head, putting up an authoritative hand. “Later, Merlin. Later. We have a great deal to discuss, but before you drop where you stand, get into the cave and sleep.”

Merlin opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to argue for a moment, probably habit at this point, the idiot, but realized he was losing that battle when he failed to stifle a gaping yawn instead. Wearily he trudged into the cave and disappeared from sight without another word.

Managing to stifle his own yawn, Arthur wished he could join him, but now that he was firmly in the land of the living again, he had things to take care of. He waved his knights over to the dwindling fire, preparing to discuss matters of great import.

“First things first,” Arthur began the meeting. “Does anyone have a spare set of trousers?”

* * * * * * *

Merlin collapsed wearily in the cave by the coals of the fire, too tired even to reach for a branch of firewood to liven it back up. He simply grabbed one of the less soiled blankets from Arthur’s heap, curled up on the dry soil, and went to sleep.

Or he tried. The truth was, while his body was as tired as it had ever been, his mind was galloping away from him; no, he corrected himself, soaring through the skies like a dragon. Arthur was alive. _He_ was alive. And despite his previous anxieties, it seemed for all the world that he would continue in that state. He was elated.

He was also terrified. What would happen to his life now? 

He knew he was in for a long conversation with Arthur tomorrow, but he couldn’t help but speculate. Merlin trusted Arthur, now more fully than was ever possible in the past. He knew that Arthur would listen to his counsel regarding magic, and once he was able to show him that magic was not not simply a power for evil, he had faith that the king would begin setting to rights the damages done by Uther and son. 

But he did have to wonder what his place would be in all this. Employment as Arthur’s manservant was convenient in that it kept him by his side without suspect. It was something of a complete waste of his skills otherwise. One day he’d be able to practice sorcery freely, but was Camelot ready for it yet?

Despite his racing thoughts chasing each other over the landscape of his mind, eventually his exhausted body forced closed the shutters and Merlin plunged into a deep sleep at last. A healthy sleep of healing this time, the safety of Arthur’s acceptance draped over him like a warm blanket and he finally dropped his guard and drifted into dreams of magic in Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more and an epilogue left! :O


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, final chapter guys! And probably the longest too. There will be a an epilogue as well, but it's shorter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> In other news, my computer revived itself. Whether it lasts a day or a month, I have no idea, but I'm happily working on my next story as we speak. So eventually, I'll have another one!

By mid-morning, Arthur found himself fully clothed--or nearly so, as despite protestations, he refused to deprive any of his men of their boots, and went round in stockinged feet instead--and brought up to speed by his knights about the goings on during his incarceration. Apparently, upon finding his and Merlin’s trail, Leon had sent back Sir Malory and Sir Kay from their party to inform Gwen and the rest of the search parties that the trail had been found, and where to find it. All things according to schedule, a substantial group of men should be arriving at some point that day to deal with any trouble their king may have gotten into.

Though it turned out that Arthur would have less to deal with then he expected. Gwaine informed the group that Merlin had taken care of Skellik and Savage. Though Gwaine had found the original statement from Merlin cryptic, there was no longer any question as to how the clumsy, half starved servant had managed it. When his men arrived, they would deal with the remaining population of the castle. At rough estimate, the knights agreed that they, and largely the dragon, had decimated a good quarter of the population, largely the fighting men. They wouldn’t exactly be outnumbering the castle inhabitants when reinforcements arrived, but the knights could hold their own against a mob of angry civilians and what soldiers were still left.

According to the knights, who had had the advantage of sight on their journey here, Savage’s holdings were at the edge of his kingdom. The few locals they had run into on their way had described a recluse who largely kept to himself, bothering no one, except to occasionally buy produce at a fair price. They kept so out of the way of the general population of Camelot, they’d somehow managed to drop completely out of mind. Arthur imagined Uther had known where Savage had lived, being a noble of the realm, but presuming him dead, had assumed his house would have dispersed. Given the violent nature of the purge, it would by no means have been the only holding left abandoned in Camelot.

What would become the most difficult decision in the dealings with the rest of Savage’s people, would be how to deal with the people who had magic, for Savage had been a sympathiser, and likely had had more than one sorcerer in his circle. Merlin’s situation had been forcing him to view sorcery through new eyes, and while he was willing to be open minded, old prejudices were difficult to overcome. And despite his absolute conviction that Merlin was good, and therefore, so was his magic, he had been witness to and subjected to a lot that was evil. He would have to judge each case on an individual level, which was, to be fair, something he’d been trying to push towards even in his father’s reign. It was time that magic was considered a neutral tool in the hands of those who who could use it for good or ill, and not evil unto itself.

A real difficulty of the situation was that, if the secretive magic users of Camelot had been twisted with hate, was it not at least somewhat justified? Had they not been persecuted for decades, forced to watch loved ones die, and felt the non-magical community begin to shift in a nation wide movement against them? And if Arthur had not personally seen to any magic related executions in his reign, had he been an ally to that minority of his people? The answer was no, and Arthur knew it was time to begin making amends for his blindness and ignorance.

Arthur was pacing slowly through the forest surrounding camp as he mused, having volunteered for a turn at watch while the others dozed. His knights had had a hard few days as well, and he was pleased to order them to rest up for a while, despite protestations of his own well-being. Truth was, he felt remarkably well, and had wanted to have a bit of time to himself to get a feel for how his body was doing. With a sword borrowed from Leon, and eyes constantly vigilant for potential dangers, he put himself through a few solo sword exercises. Truthfully, while his wounds had been healed to a great extent, he was still covered with a myriad of injuries, and was still recovering from nearly a week of scant food and water, and constant extreme stress. 

He slowly pushed himself to more difficult movements and greater speeds, but was soon panting hard, sweat dripping off his face. He took a swig from a borrowed waterskin--he’d be pleased to have his own belongings again, he thought, hitching up trousers that were rather to big for him--wiped his damp brow, and pulled off his jacket. The day was warm for the year, which is to say, he would have been cool in just a shirt without the exercise, but having pushed hard for a half hour or so, he quite enjoyed the crisp air.

In a number of places the chilly breeze brought to attention a certain dampness of cooled cloth sticking to skin, and he looked down to discover that his wounds had opened in a number of places. He sighed, a little exasperated at himself for taking it too far too soon, a lesson any knight learns quickly in the rigorous training they were put through. The injuries had looked and felt so much better than they had, that he’d almost forgotten that he was not in fact, completely healed. His bones had only the slightest ache where they’d be broken, as freshly healed bones did. He had no doubt they’d cease paining him soon. But the flesh wounds had been taken to a lesser level of healing. Arthur had looked at them, and had been impressed with the fact that all signs of infection were completely gone. Gone too was that gut deep ache that told him he was internally damaged beyond repair. The injuries would all likely heal more cleanly than they had any right to, thanks to Merlin. But judging by the state of the warlock when he’d woken up to find him unconscious by his side, the doing of all that had taken his all. If nature had to run its course and heal him the rest of the way as usual, he was only overjoyed to be alive and experience it. 

Sufficiently cooled, Arthur shrugged his jacket back on, and tucked the sword in his belt. That was quite enough of that for the next little while, barring need, he scolded himself. He felt a little guilty that he’d have to get Merlin to bandage him up later. He finished his watch, patrolling their perimeter without further incident, and returned to the fireside in time for lunch.

Merlin was awake, he saw, and Arthur was about to scold him for being both out of the cave, and for all appearances making up a batch of stew for them all, when Gwaine came up next to him and gently snatched the ladle from his hand, administering the scolding first. The other knights tsk tsked at the would be servant, Percival pushing him onto a log to sit, and Elyan handing him a brimming bowl, filled by Gwaine, with a flourish. Merlin burned red to his ears, muttering thanks, and looking pleased.

Arthur smiled to himself, hanging back for a moment to watch his closest friends joke around with each other fondly. He often found himself looking at them from a distance like this. As king, he felt the need to keep a certain amount of distance from those closest to him. He broke this rule far more than his father ever did, but just the same, the walls he put up offered him a sort of protection. These were men he would have to order into battle, their lives were literally in his hands. Besides Gwen, with whom he could be completely himself, Merlin was the closest friend he had, and it pleased him that his men had taken the news of Merlin’s secret so well.

Finally he approached them, and they all looked up at him at once. He dropped the smile as they watched, nodding severely at them, and turned to Merlin.

“What’s this then? Always said you were the worst servant in the history of Camelot.”

Merlin grinned at him as Arthur took a seat on a vacant bit of log next to Leon. “And yet you always put up with me cause I’m the only servant in all of Camelot who could put up with _you_.”

Arthur scowled, and the others grinned, and Arthur had to shove a giant bite of stew in his mouth to keep his facade from cracking. This proved a poor idea considering the stew was fresh from the fire, and he fought to keep his composure whilst rapidly fanning his mouth with a hand. The others were grinning at him like goons, and he gave them all a kingly stare.

“Glad to see you feeling so much better Merlin,” Arthur said, finally swallowing. “I wasn’t about to ask a sick man to do the washing up, but you’re looking perfectly energetic.”

“Oh, not a problem, sire!” Merlin winked at him, looked pointedly at the emptied pot next to the fire, and muttered an incomprehensible word. His eyes flashed gold, still unnerving to see, and instantly the pot was spotless. The knights all jumped a bit, but laughed and clapped him on the back.

“Ha. Ha.” Said Arthur sarcastically, but grinning over at him anyway. They finished their stew and stacked their bowls and spoons, instantly cleaned with a casual wave of Merlin’s hand, and got up to tidy up the rest of the camp. Leon rode out with Elyan to scout the road to the castle’s main entrance. With luck, the reinforcements would arrive soon and they could deal with Savage’s miscreants and head out.

Merlin had headed back to the cave and shortly thereafter exited again with the bedrolls and cloaks of the men, now spotless. He was divvying these out when he stopped in his tracks and gave Arthur a look of great annoyance, brows knitted and eyes flashing.

“Arthur!” 

Arthur finished an overhand stretch, rolling his shoulders and looked at him bewildered. “Merlin?!” he said, matching his tone to Merlin’s and giving him a look of question and mild irritation.

“What did you do?” Merlin dumped his remaining load into the ample arms of a chagrined passing by Percival, and marched over to Arthur, opening up his jacket front to reveal the crusting over spots of red dotting his tunic.

“It’s nothing!” Arthur said, waving him off and stalking away, feeling embarrassed. Merlin scoffed loudly and went back to the cave. He came out a moment later with the medical kit, and cornered Arthur with it on a log by the fire.

Merlin made him sit down and take off his top layers, glowering at him as if daring Arthur to try and resist his orders. For his part, Arthur sat down with dignity, choosing to act as if the whole thing was his idea. It wouldn’t do to look wary of a physician’s tending in front of the men.

Merlin helped him unstick the material from his back and shoulders, and started poking about in investigation. The stab wounds, while leagues better than they had been, still did not want to remain closed--at least not with a foolish Arthur prancing about with a sword, Merlin had scolded him. The burns, he added, could use some unguent as well to keep them from cracking and scarring.

“Can’t you just, you know--” Arthur wiggled his fingers in what he considered an obviously magical motion when Merlin pulled out a bottle of ointment and a needle and thread.

Merlin quirked a brow at Arthur’s gesture, but then grimaced at him apologetically. “Sorry Arthur, the spell I used on you last night was a dragon’ spell. It’s still in there helping things along, keeping the infection away and that. I don’t want to risk contaminating the spell with my own.” He pulled a bit of catgut through the eye of a needle, “It should also keep you from scarring, so that’s good at least.” He knelt on the ground by Arthur’s side and looked up at him expectantly.

Arthur sighed and shifted to grant him access to a wound on his lower gut that was bleeding the worst, pulling down the waistband a bit for ease. “What’s a dragon spell?” He asked before Merlin began, searching for a bit of distraction.

“Just what it sounds like,” Merlin said flippantly, shoving the needle through his flesh casually. He’d obviously done this with Gaius before, Arthur noted. He was deft and quick fingered, and as gentle with a painful job as could be expected. “Kilgharrah, the dragon I called yesterday to help with the escape, he gave it to me. My own healing powers are not really my strong suit,” he admitted.

“Really?” Arthur asked, voice only slightly strained. “After last night I would never have assumed.” Merlin moved onto the next wound on his other side, crawling over the leaves at his stockinged feet.

“The spell took from my powers, which are strong obviously,” Merlin explained casually, without a hint of false modesty or excessive pride, “but the spell guided your body through the healing. I sort of just, took aim and let it loose,” he shrugged.

“So you can just, what? Order the creatures around then? And they can do magic and such?”

“Dragons are creatures of magic, yes. And powerful sorcerers. And yes, as a dragon lord they must bend to my will. I don’t just go ordering them about though, they are their own people, same as anyone. They deserve respect.” 

“The dragon,” Arthur began, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. “It’s _that_ dragon, correct?” he asked, referring of course to the dragon he had supposedly slain so many years ago. “It didn’t actually die that night. It was supposed to be the last.”

“Er, yeah,” Merlin said a little sheepishly. “That’s him. He’d been done a great injustice,” he tried to explain, “him and his kin, our kin. He won’t do it again, I swear it.” Merlin looked up at him seriously, pausing in his work. 

Arthur met his eyes, “I’m glad he lived Merlin. I understand.” He groaned, and shifted again as Merlin nodded, and finished off another short line of stitches. “Besides, sounds like I owe him my life as much as I do you.”

Merlin finished up the rest of his stitching, winding up feeling the need to do about half of his stab wounds, including both entrance and exit wounds. Arthur endured it all without complaint, it was hardly the first time he’d had to be stitched up, and Gwaine and Percival politely pretended not to notice when he had to inelegantly pull down his trousers to expose his leg wounds, or when he had to pause halfway through to throw up his lunch. Then he was smeared with the entirety of the contents of the half full ointment jar, and wrapped with so many bandages that he felt rather like an overstuffed sausage, but in the end, he did feel somewhat better. Arthur wondered if Merlin hadn’t doctored up the greasy unguent a bit with an enchantment or two.

Barely an hour later Leon and Elyan returned to announce the arrival of a company of Camelot’s finest to the main gates of the late Savage’s castle. There they awaited the arrival of the king with orders of how to proceed. 

The horses were by now packed and ready to go, and camp broke, so without further ado they mounted up and headed out. In order to give Arthur his own horse for dignity’s sake, Elyan doubled up with Leon, and Merlin with Gwaine. Percival, the largest, was able to remain solo. For the time being, it was agreed that Merlin’s new status would remain a secret between them.

“Rest assured, you will not have to live in secret for long,” Arthur said seriously. “All of Camelot will know what you’ve done for the kingdom, and for me.”

“I know Arthur.” Merlin met his eyes, full of trust.

The company of soldiers hailed them with enthusiasm when they rode up, and Arthur greeted his men with pride and joy, riding among them to shake hands and whack them companionably about the shoulders. He was also given a parcel from Gwen, who would have had to stay in Camelot to rule in his absence, which turned out to be a set of his own clothing and armour. Gratefully he retreated into the privacy of the forest to change out of his combination of borrowed clothing and peasant disguise. She’d even thought to send along a pair of boots just in case, bless her.

Feeling more like himself than he had in a week, he rejoined the company and mounted his borrowed horse. The frightened looking guards on the wall over the barred gate, so far ignored, were now given the attention of a suddenly stern and uniformed Arthur.

“By order of the king of Camelot, you will open this gate.” His voice carried clear and commanding through the crisp air, and the two soldiers in white took no more time to obey than to exchange quick nervous glances between each other. Arthur thought it more than reasonable that they looked scared after their dramatic exit the night before. He suddenly wished the dragon were around now--now that would be an entrance.

The guards were then ordered down from the wall to be replaced by a handful of knights, and away from the gate mechanisms, they stood trembling, surrounded by scores of knights on all sides. The main grounds were fully visible before them, empty of men, and in the distance around the left side of the castle, Arthur could make out what appeared to be great swaths of blackened scorched earth disappearing around the back, where a number of men seemed to be dragging bodies off to the sides to lay by the outer walls. 

“Tell your men to gather by the wall here, unarmed,” Arthur addressed one of the soldiers as he entered the gate, gesturing to a broad and open expanse of wall. The man ran off, looking relieved to be away from the angry stares, though the order was not strictly needed. Their presence couldn’t fail to have been noticed, and already a few small groups were making their way forward.

Arthur was at least willing to accede them points for that. Not that they had much choice, but they might have thought to cower in the castle or barracks. They were outnumbered and short their leaders, so a defence would have been foolish. Arthur was glad they hadn’t taken that route; he was not intending to see more bloodshed in this place. 

Under the mounted supervision of his knights, the soldiers filed past, throwing their weapons to the side in a heap before moving to the wall in clear surrender. They were also joined by a small number of women and children from the castle, who were greeted quietly by individuals from the crowd of fighters, and a number of men who clearly didn’t fill soldiering positions. Merlin had told him about his taking down Skellik, and his conversation with the ill fated wife of Savage, so he was not surprised to see the rabble leaderless. 

When questioned, one woman informed him that Meriam had indeed had left that morning with a handful of personal servants, to travel out of the kingdom and rejoin her family. Arthur silently wished her a good journey, and cursed, not for the first time, the memory of Antony Savage.

When he was assured that all who could be present, were, Arthur rode out to the mid grounds, facing the lot of them. Mounted, he towered over the frankly lost looking group, and he looked them over somberly. A few of the men, soldiers all, looked aghast to see him alive and in front of them, including Skellik’s lackey from the day before. Most, however, looked afraid and bewildered. It was their faces that set in his mind what he would say to them.

“Citizens of Camelot,” He addressed them. “For that is what you are. Though you flocked to the banner of a traitor, lived hidden from the crown for many years, you are still my people, and subject to the laws of my kingdom.” There were mutterings and frowns among the gathered at the accusation of treason, and some few looks of pride. The knights flanking them began fingering weapons, horses shifting as they felt their riders tense. Arthur held up a hand to halt their attentions, shaking his head once firmly.

“Your late Lord Savage was halted in his plotting against the crown, as was his general, one Skellik.” He said the name without untoward malice, though he wanted to spit on the grass, to clear his mouth of the taste of the name. “They will trouble the kingdom no further. In addition, I am aware that a significant proportion of your number were killed last night in the altercation.” More mutterings and frowns. A woman in the crowd wept openly, clutching at a blank faced child or perhaps four or five. 

“Those facts are one part of the reason that I have decided to grant the rest of you clemency. I’d see no more bloodshed.” He held up a stern hand again as his knights shifted in the beginnings of protest, and then continued. “The other reason is more complicated.”

He looked again at his knights, all of them watching him with full attention. He looked at them all, face open and sincere, silently asking them to heed his next words with a likewise open mind. Merlin, seeming to guess what he was about to say, caught his eye from his perch behind Gwaine, eyes bright, and gave him a small nod of encouragement and trust. Arthur nodded imperceptibly back, and turned back to his surrendered. This was not the time to out his friend as a sorcerer, but it was past time for the beginning of change.

“I am aware that your late lord was a man sympathetic to sorcery. As such, I am also aware that some of you yourselves may be practitioners of magic.” The subtle shifting in the crowd would have answered that question had he been unaware. “As you know, sorcery is banned in Camelot. The sentence for that crime, though I have not carried it out in my reign, is death. However, it has come to my attention that magic may not be the thing of evil my father decreed it to be.”

Both sides broke into a quiet and surprised muttering at this statement. Arthur allowed a moment to let the murmur die back down, watching as the castle inhabitants whispered to each other in wary surprise, and many of his own men seemed to be staring at him in open shock, assessing whether or not he was under some enchantment, though they were clearly trying to be polite about it.

“Last night, I was aided in my escape by an ally, and that ally, unbeknownst to me at the time, was a sorcerer. That man risked his life to save my own from captivity, knowing that by my very own laws, I must condemn him to death for doing so. But he did it anyway, for he felt it was right. And so I had to ask myself was _I_ right? Is sorcery evil? Certainly, I have seen what evil magic can be used for, but thanks to my ally, I’ve also seen and learned that it can be used for good.

“And so today I announce to you, citizens of Camelot, that the magical among you will no longer be condemned for the practice of sorcery, will not longer need to live in secrecy and fear. All will be judged by their actions, not by their means. The ban on magic in Camelot is lifted.”

If the people around him were not already reeling with shock, outrage or utter disbelief, it was nothing to their reactions in the following moment.

“I presume the hunt for certain magical creatures is likewise lifted, oh venerable King of Camelot?”

The crowd of castle populace were agog with wonder and fright; most cowered against each other or ogled frozenly, a few of the unarmed soldiers looked like they considered going for the pile of surrendered weapons. The knights were brandishing weapons, and shouting with astonishment, grouping into their trained formations to rush the wall with spear and bow. For atop the wall adjacent the gate and the crowd, perched a dragon, grinning down at them in complete disregard of their weapons.

_Now_ he shows up, Arthur thought to himself.

“Hold!” Arthur shouted, riding amongst his men, “stay your weapons, the dragon is a friend. Hold!” 

Kilgharrah watched the goings on below him in amusement, gigantic clawed feet casually shifting rock from the wall as he balanced his bulk on the narrow walkway. Below, the knights who sat their horses below hastily steered their mounts away, avoiding the falling head-sized boulders.

Assured the people were under control once more, Arthur moved to address the dragon. Merlin, he noticed, was grinning wickedly in his direction, looking not the least bit surprised at their sudden visitor, the ass. Arthur glared at him, and Merlin beamed back.

“Great dragon,” he called in a carrying voice, steady despite his nerves--just how did one address a bloody dragon? Especially one you were supposed to have slain. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for your aid last night. You are indeed welcome in Camelot.”

The giant creature graciously dipped his head in a low bow, and flopped down on his belly, with a small explosion of rubble. He settled himself comfortably with a rustling of scales, apparently set to watch the rest of the proceedings. His yellow eyes seemed to drink everything in with a mild and somewhat haughty interest.

‘ _You may call me Kilgharrah, Once and Future King._ ’ A voice suddenly boomed right into Arthur’s head, causing him to jump. That was followed by a chuckle, though he was fairly certain he did not hear it with his ears. ‘ _You’ve made a great step in fulfilling your destiny today. You have my support._ ’ 

Unable to form his own reply silently, he nodded his head in reply. He didn’t know what the dragon meant about his odd title, though it seemed oddly familiar--had Merlin called him that before?-- nor did he know what he meant about destiny, but he appreciated the support of such a being. From the mixed reactions of his men, he thought he would come to need it in the coming days. Fighting prejudice would be a difficult battle, but a worthy and necessary one.

The rest of their afternoon was spent in organization and explanation. Men were sent to investigate the castle and make sure there were no secret or treacherous goings on. Arthur and Merlin’s horses were returned to their rightful owners. Merlin disappeared briefly and came back with a mysterious wrapped bundle he would later tell him was confiscated dangerous magical goods, largely in the form of a great many bundled up chains and manacle sets. 

Arthur himself and some of his men helped to bury the dead and clear the scorched rubble from the night before. Arthur saw a few dirty looks aimed at Kilgharrah, still perched in the distance, but largely the gesture was appreciated.

Arthur tried to speak to everyone who had concerns, both from the castle’s people, and his own men. The people were encouraged to stay if they wished, and Arthur assured them they had his blessing to make the location one of Camelot’s first openly magical communities. Most of them decided to stay in the end. Among his own men he had those who seemed to accept his decision with little issue, to those who were extremely sceptical, to put it mildly. The latter he spoke to with a firm patience, knowing he was among them only less than a day ago. He knew it would take time to get through to them, but he would persevere, and in time, win.

He was as a matter of fact a little surprised with how outnumbered those who clearly opposed his decree were, compared to those who seemed simply in need of a little convincing, or where even pleased about it. It shamed him to see the evidence before him of how narrow-minded he had been on the subject of magic. Indeed, the majority of the most staunch in their opposition were, like himself, the noble class of Camelot proper, sons of Uther’s peers, and the most influenced by his father’s immediate opinions. The hardest battle would be won at home.

By early evening, Arthur felt that at last he could leave the place behind. He assigned a group of men under Leon’s control to stay behind and help the people deal with their dead and elect the proper town leaders and such that was needed to make the town an open part of the kingdom once more. 

The troops were gathered along with the handful of people from the castle who chose to emigrate now that their leader was gone, feeling safer travelling with a group of armed and tentative allies, rather than chancing a meeting with armed and certain enemies on the road.

Arthur lifted a hand in farewell to Leon, who returned the gesture, and rode out at the head of his men, Merlin, sorcerer and trusted friend, at his side.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! Guys, I for some reason thought I'd submitted this! Sorry for the wait!
> 
> I have a hard time writing speechy things, so hopefully that part sounds ok ;P

_Three weeks later…_

The hall of Camelot was bright and warm, festive jewel-toned colors streamed in through the towering stained glass windows, lending the colorfully dressed people below an even greater vibrancy. Winter had finally made an appearance, but the castle was far from dreary. Cheerful fires were lit in every fireplace and braziers sat in corners, keeping the chill at bay.

King Arthur stood upon the dais and proudly faced his people, his queen at his side. Both wore their finest in honor of the occasion, the gold of their burnished crowns glowing warmly, their clothing as richly colored as bird’s feathers, and both of these paling in comparison to the exuberance worn plain on their faces.

The past three weeks had been difficult to say the least, and there was still plenty to take care of, but at long last magic had officially been restored to the kingdom. The ban was indisputably revoked, the paperwork written, witnessed and signed. Arthur was proud.

Of the faces before them, the majority were joyous, eyes alight with hope and optimism. A few were admittedly less sanguine, but any leader will know it’s impossible to please everyone. And Arthur knew in his heart that he was doing the right thing for his people. All his people. 

Guinevere looked at him with smiling eyes and gave his hand a quick squeeze, gifting him encouragement, support and affection. He squeezed gently back, and brought her hand chastely to his lips; an act not for the crowd, but still he saw a number of tenderhearted looks thrown their way. Arthur gave Gwen her hand back and turned to face the gathering once more.

“Citizens of Camelot,” he stepped gracefully forward, body fully healed with the help of the dragon spell. His voice was regal but merry, and he seemed to look everyone in the eye as his gaze swept the room, making all feel included in the moment. All the familiar faces of Camelot were present, save a single dark-haired, neck-kerchiefed exception. 

“We gather today for one reason. To honor a man, who for many years since his arrival to Camelot, lived a life of secrecy. Out of necessity, he hid a vital part of himself, for his kingdom, and its laws had failed him. My father declared a war on magic over twenty years ago, and when it came my time to reign, I continued that fight. I was wrong. We were wrong. It was a great injustice; the people who practiced magic in Camelot were persecuted, based only on the perceived malpractice of a few. My father saw enemies everywhere when he could have seen allies, and _should_ have seen the citizens he owed his protection and respect. I followed in his footsteps. But thanks to the courageous actions of one man, I learnt a different side to sorcery.

“This man saved my life. Knowing his actions would mean his own death by law, he saved his king, his friend, using that forbidden means: magic. And since that night, not a month past, I have continually learned just how many times he had saved my life before then. Countless times this man has saved me, he has saved my people, he has saved this kingdom: with magic. 

“For magic itself is not a thing of evil. It is hatred, and a lust for power that is evil. It is prejudice and unfounded fear that is evil. That is what we should be fighting against, and thanks to the man we are honoring today, we can count on the help of those we should have been fighting alongside since the beginning. For it is my honor to welcome back into the light the magical community of Camelot, with my personal vow as king to fight for your rights as citizens. I can never make right what I have done in the past, and I am deeply shamed by my actions, but on my honor, going forward I will make this land a haven for all the diversity of Camelot’s people.”

Arthur spoke with passion, and he meant every word. The people gathered before him followed his words in silence and were visibly moved by his sincerity. Here and there people were nodding along; a few of who opposed him shifted uncomfortably, seeming to turn his words over in their minds, perhaps to finally challenge their own bigotry. 

“And so it is my honor and privilege to introduce to all of you gathered here today, adviser to the king, ambassador for the people, and protector of the kingdom, under the new title of Court Sorcerer, Lord Merlin!” 

Arthur abruptly turned off to one side, sweeping out his arm as he did so, scarlet cloak billowing bright. From behind the cloth suddenly appeared the familiar form of Merlin. 

The man was grinning ear to ear as the audience gasped at his trick. He was rendered elegant in the clothing gifted him, so as to better match his new and lofty position. Dressed entirely in flowing black, minus the infamous scarf peeping out from beneath his cloak in Camelot-red silk. In his hand he held an intricately decorative staff as tall as he was, topped with a blood red stone as symbol of his status.

Arthur stepped up beside him, eyes crinkling as he beamed at his friend, recognized at last. Quietly he spoke, “Alright Merlin, show them what you can do.”

Merlin laughed, unable to contain his mirth any longer. His eyes flashed the brightest gold as he thrust the red-stoned staff upwards. With a soundless explosion a dazzling display of glittering lights, like sparks from impossibly colored fire, shot over the crowd. Hazy shapes like swooping birds, leaping horses and all manner of elegant creatures danced across the hall and motes of light rained down on the crowd gently popping like soap bubbles, warm and soft to the touch. Outside, a dragon roared in triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's it for my first ever fic. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Tell me what you think! What worked best, what could use some work, etc. etc. Would love to hear from you!
> 
> Currently (slowly) working on my next story. If I come up with any short things in between, I'll be sure to post ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short prologue to set the scene. Please review!! Give a new author some motivation ;)
> 
> Btw, I hate thinking of titles, so I just used my ancestral clan's very melodramatic motto. Love it.


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